Shadow Mountain i had walked my entire life as a dead man

he was in fact, early. 
sundown had come and gone; twilight had become solid night. the crunch of snow would announce lestan mayfair for any ears that might listen.
there were no bouquets to be had, no furbelows collected. he brought himself, preened anxiously to a glowing sheen — and he brought a spray of cold-purple crocus flowers.
blooms after all.
sprawled in his teeth, the stems tasted rather bitter; he was eager to put them down and turn slowly in a circle. "well," his voice said warmly into the wind, conversational tone held, "i am here, winter's @Wake."

Wake intended to be early also. He would have liked to nap in their meeting place and awaken to the sound of Lestan’s arrival, or otherwise sleep through the disappointment of his absence…

But he arrived to find those bluesummer eyes already there.

Thunderstruck, Winter’s Wake hid his surprise behind a cool, welcoming façade. Lestan, he said with great affection, tail lifted into a broad wag. He came near enough that his own groomed pelt might be appreciated, as he openly admired the summerwolf as if undressing him with his eyes.

Once Lestan had been thoroughly ravished, visually and mentally, black emeralds found the splay of amethyst flowers at their paws. Are these for me? He looked up again, dark gaze dancing with the delight of a dragon eyeing its hoard.

winter's wake moved in beautiful grace, transfixing lestan as usual. a shy smile came to life on his mouth, his lashes shuttering the honeyblue of his eyes for a composing moment. "yes."
where there was loveliness there existed also power, a feral awareness that the winterman might easily tear him limb from limb if lestan did not find his own strength.
something — pleasant in that idea of surrender.
the loss of that deerbone talisman thudded hard in his chest, but as he looked now upon the amused black eyes, he knew that face would be able to replace what the witch had taken.
tracing the silken set of each hair, lestan snared himself in the dark gemstone of winter's gaze. caught within a daringness, the mayfair lifted a crocus softly in his teeth, pretending to align it along wake's cheekbone.
the contrast was so magnificent he dropped the flower in summary fashion, an embarrassed little chuckle living in his throat. "a winter's flower for a springtime heart."

Winter’s Wake watched with sedate fascination as the academic Lestan made a gesture far bolder than any he had before. Pondwater gaze never left that tender face, beloved from every angle he had witnessed so far. Anticipation warmed the air between them, and a looming failure of restraint pulled their lines taut.

As the flower fell, as the tension was broken, Elysian words nestled into the down of his ears.

Why, saer Mayfair, Wake teased, barely able to withhold a sigh of quickened longing. Are you trying to woo me? His eyes became hooded as he regarded his admirer, lascivious thoughts aglimmer behind snakeblack eyes. I thought this was my role.

"i've had a g-good teacher," lestan said in a breathy little voice that wanted to be so much more forceful. "i suppose," he went on, in the manner of a well-threaded man with hands clasped behind his back, rising once on the balls of his feet;
"— i suppose i wanted to show you the results of one of your l-lessons," and he found himself again, earnest and standing in the spotlight of his own desire.
winter was illuminated by the rising stars, just now becoming edged in the silverwash provided by the moon just as she began to waken. lestan could not take himself from the black eyes nor their devouring; "have i succeeded then?" shy! wanton! breathless; rooted. surely the entire blessed world could hear the pulse thundering in his wrists, in his throat.

Transfixed by the Mayfair’s prayerful face, Wake did not answer at first. For a moment, there was only a characteristic tilt of his head and the brandishing of a barely-there smirk that knew too much.

This was worship.

The seraphim to his godhood. There was no question of it now. The summerwolf had not only honored their full moon pact, he had also brought tribute, laid now at the feet of his Maker. Wake bent down to closely sniff the petals, admiring how their lovely scent was but a paltry waft against the exquisite balm of Lestan.

He let that racing pulse go on.

When he lifted his head again, it was to savor the slanting nightshine upon his fated companion. Wake feasted on the otherworldly radiance drawn against Lestan, as moonwashed light reflected off the snow, framing his sublime summer features above sharp lines of shadow.

Very much so, he hummed. You have me at your mercy…

What will you do with me, my Mayfair?

Shall I answer more of your questions? Perhaps treat you to a meal? What will satisfy you, my Mayfair? Another lesson? A story? I would even allow you to gladden me with your touch. His eyes danced with laughter. Tell me your appetite tonight. It was command and request; the loveliest edict. I should like to keep you until morning, so that there will be time to sate you.

you have me at your mercy
and lestan ached;
i would even allow you to gladden me with your touch
and lestan felt a pulsing, radiant pain in his palms to do just that, to trace the silken vagaries of their ever-changing interlude until he captured what was real in wake. what would not leave. what would not depart.
what would not abandon.
"i w-would not be a v-very good companion if i c-could not hold a conversation," but he was beyond that, lestan felt, the mayfair's heart leaping past madness and directly into the violin-strings of —
with great effort he pulled his eyes away. "i w-want to watch the moon, from the highest point of your m-mountain," lestan managed, and his mouth could not keep itself from a saccharine bow.

There came a gently firm correction— our mountain— joined by a touch of equal command and softness to raise the man’s bowed chin and collar his eyes in loving ownership.

Their first touch passed in an instant eternity.

Come with me, Wake directed, words infinitely deep and microscopically shallow. Said now and years ago and millennia ahead. Spoken on every plane of their shared existence. To Lestan in every lifetime.

Gliding alongside his companion, Wake would lead them in brisk ascension, covering the snow-paved paths before them with graceful strides. A moonlit cloud of snowdust billowed behind like smoke from a steam engine. He traded the frosted air for a pinch in his lungs to continue a conversation with the bluesummer.

I am a missionary, he said over the sound of snow underfoot, speaking on things that had been said before, many nights ago. Heirophant of the Rhythm, and fourthborn to both parents, which makes me a herald of great favor by the old laws. Wry, charming, boastful; there was a ruefulness there also, somewhat dismissive to the concept. After all, he had siblings who were far more devout and more fortunate in the way that their lives were already settled while his remained in limbo. I took first breath on the south rise of the Four Pointed Mountains, and there I did live until this summer most recent.

He fell quiet, then seemed to recall the last thing he meant to tell. Oh, and my mother was named Autumn’s Mirror. Only I never met her. He offered this as casually as if it belonged in someone else’s life, someone Wake was not familiar with. She was banished the moment she gave birth to me and my littermates. Denied a chance to suckle us even once, I was told.

and he held lestan in thrall, as if he were pressed against a longing that had no end to the windowpane which separated he and winter's wake. a rain of diamonds were those words, and the scintillation of fullblack eyes provoked deep stirrings within the mayfair.
the shepherd provided. the lamb came willing.
hierophant. fourthborn of four points. lestan marveled that here tonight there were only two. and in that voice, some hint of velveteen derision maybe, another oddity which he longed to unravel.
snow filled the air in soft coursing as winter spoke of a mother who was not. lestan was unsure how to answer and so said nothing at all, mulling across these spoken parts of a just-opened tome, awed by the minutiae of his companion.
"we had similar mothers," was what he said next; "angelique may have nursed us, but she did not l-love us." and his father; there were too many dark stories of shared blood and ghosts who cloaked themselves in the ardent flesh of living men before lying down with witches in the night.
"your old l-laws," lestan murmured next. "do you believe in them?" did wake cling to what he knew when he was alone, when he shared solitude with the anxieties of tradition and subsequently their comforts.

Winter’s Wake blinked fiercely.

Lestan— unloved?

Such a revelation was nearly incomprehensible. Yet, it made a certain degree of sense when proffered against the summerwolf’s innate demeanor. Much had informed him that the curse of a neglectful mother often led to the gamut of empathic, nonconfrontational, and people-pleasing qualities that he could sense in Lestan.

And Wake was not an exception to this rule; his own origin hardly applied. It felt wrong to tell him at this moment that despite the absence of his birth mother, his surrogate had been a superior being by all accounts; that she, not his womb-bearer, was the one to single-handedly build his towering confidence. He was glad to speak of knowledge instead.

Some, he admitted to the academic after a short reflecting. Most of the old laws have been buried by time and skepticism. They were either too restrictive in the eyes of the youngers, or our predecessors’ courts found them counterintuitive to the Rhythm’s core tenets. Just as with life and all other systems of belief, the tome of Rhythm was ever-evolving.

The teachings that remain are too ingrained to dismiss entirely, but today they are relegated to folk tale or superstition as opposed to law.

Did Lestan have beliefs? Superstitions? Sophistries? Did he follow any gods? Or were his thoughts occupied only by the corporeal? Are you spiritual, Lestan? the preacher probed nonchalantly, black emeralds lampshaded as he looked forward to the snowpath leading up and up and up.

some skepticism? lestan ran back over the things he had said, wondering which of them inspired the pretty blink. but they were moving along now, winter's wake wafting satined words into the air as he spoke of the way ancient fell to modern.
he almost bit the inside of his own cheek when asked, trying to summon the words which had seemed so present only seconds before.
"i'm t-told my family is witches. the mayfairs," he uttered, a thin tendril of silver dread glinting inside him at the sound.
a quick blinking; memories of himself shouting and mad in seaside mud. "i c-can't say that i am. i much prefer the p-practical. the tangible," heart trotting again in desire-mad gait.
"will you w-write new laws?" lestan asked, curious even as he found himself unable to hold that unassailable gaze for any longer.

Witches.

A bane upon most religions, but not to the Rhythm. His dogma was not threatened by or jealous of the prevailing of others. All wolves of the natural order had their place in his faith. Pagans and heathens and heretics alike. Lestan being a descendant of magick-users only made him more fascinating, and Wake’s infatuation could now be explained through enchantment.

Except… this Mayfair was not inclined to claim his own blood had any magick at all.

Which was just as well. For as a tangible being himself, Wake could stand in place of any god or myth or craft and be the thing worshipped by those bluesummer eyes. His gods would not mind the idolatry. Not so long as he paid homage to those ancients above and below.

Perhaps, came his warmfire voice. But it would bastardize my branch, he went on. I could not rightfully claim it as Rhythm. I have completed no rituals, taken neither vow nor lesson. The gods do not speak to me, as they would to our spiritual leaders— our Madonnas, our Directresses. If I live by new laws, I do so with the understanding that it will not be true to my faith.

He would have to make a willful choice to abandon Paradis. To abandon the halls of eternity that opened after this life. He was brave enough to endeavor it, but his desire for such a thing fell like sand through parted fingers.

The mountain seemed to shrink the higher they climbed, until there seemed nothing between them and the sky and the earthly miles beyond. The moon bathed them in glorious light, and Winter’s eyes could not leave the summerstar beside him.

Could you love a religious wolf? He spoke into the night. You of the practical mind, the tangible things?