Neverwinter Forest eat your heart,

@Rokkur

the sun is high above, its golden rays streaming through the canopy of pines, dappling her silver and blue coat in shifting patches of light. though the air carries the bite of winter, the midday sun tempers it, wrapping the forest in a gentle, crisp warmth that reminds her of fleeting springs at dragon’s bay. she moves through the forest as she has many times now. there are small stores of herbs, collected and carefully preserved—her lifelines in the harsh months, when the frost threatens to claim the land’s bounty. her paws carry her to one such cache, nestled beneath the protective roots of a tree, and she stops, lowering her head to inspect it.

the small bundle is there, untouched by scavengers, its earthy scent still intact. she nudges it gently with her nose, her breath misting in the cold air as she checks for signs of damage. the herbs are still dry, still potent, but the frost is creeping closer. she makes a note to find more chamomile soon.

as she works, her mind drifts, and without realizing it, a soft tune escapes her. it is a lullaby, old and worn, sung to her as a pup by her mother beneath the starry skies of dragon’s bay.

he arrives from his conversation with the king, in which he had asked of sögumaðr's opinion of the læknir, before revealing something that he, in fact, had not been aware of. though he felt it right to do what he must upon the path that was laid before him by the gods, and a sense that it was only sensible for both wolves of the ironbark circle to bring forth children, he could not help but feel a twinge of ... betrayal was too harsh a word, nor was he frustrated. but ... he could only wish to have heard it from her.

his ... betrothed. was that a suitable term?

it was now that rökkur approached the dragon woman, his steps heavy, telling of his approach long before the low chuff he delivered did. she is gathering herbs, he notices, and a soft hum, a lilting tune, swathes the lands in a golden peace, the shifting light hitting her sky-silver fur and painting her in an almost ethereal scene. he lifts his voice, then, though he is careful in his tone, wishing not to disrupt the peace hand-crafted by the woman before him: íruna, comes the rumble of a word ; a single murmur.

rökkur moves to nose against the crown of her head, listening to her hum. what tune is that? he queries, though there was something that laced his question, something that was soon to come, something of more importance. a question he had yet to ask.

why didn't you tell me?

íruna lifts her head at the sound of his chuff, eyes softening as rökkur steps into view. his approach is not unwelcome; in fact, he is comforting. when his nose brushes the crown of her head, she does not pull away. instead, she leans into him, her shoulder pressing against his, welcoming the sync of muscle upon muscle. in a gesture of quiet acceptance. her hum carries on, steady and unbroken, until it fades naturally, giving way to words: it is a tune my mother used to sing to me, she hums to the man. she tilts her head slightly, looking up at him now. she says: one of my earliest memories, nestled at her side, listening to her voice. there is a faint smile that curves her lips, distant for only a moment. how she misses her mother.

íruna moves then, her attention briefly shifting to her cache. she nudges the herbs gently, ensuring they are still intact before pulling the covering back over them. it is a habit, this care, this attention to detail, but it is not where her mind lingers now. no, her thoughts are firmly rooted in the man at her side, the warmth of his body. she turns to him fully, eyes searching his face for answers.

and you? she asks at last, a soft courtesy to the man. what brings you here, rökkur mánison? her tone is light, almost teasing, now. though it drifts when she notices the more... serious tone his face undergoes. dread fills her stomach, swallowed up within a black abyss.

a beautiful memory, he responded, preening, now, at the fur upon her head, the beginnings of her neck, behind her ears. the tilt of her head finds his nose lingering at the space between her glacier-blue eyes, before he, too, pulls away. though he does not move too far, simply rearing his head back upon his neck, his chest. the medic moves her herbs, then, and moves to look towards him completely. rökkur did not turn his gaze away from hers, scarlet meeting those of ice, unwavering, a seriousness within him.

his face seems to harden, for a moment, before he releases a breath and turns away from her. he moves only slightly, carrying himself back in the direction for a pace, maybe two, before he stills himself upon the earth. sólhárr told me of the path the gods have laid out for us, the guardian explains, then. i have no issue with him, nor this path, nor you, íruna, he gave a single step of his right paw so that he may curve his body to look upon her. and please, do not think of me as upset, nor angry. but i know you hid the kings' words from me, and i hate to be out of the loop, rökkur returned to her.

his body, close to hers, breaths mingling. his words, a whisper in her ear, his temple against her own. his sentence came low: i wish you had told me. close. together.

if we are to be betrothed, he said, now. i want us to share with one another.

he knows.

the realization sends a shock through her, sharp and jarring, and her breathing comes shallow, uneven. the panic is there, clawing at the edges of her composure, but she does not let it take her. she cannot. instead, she grounds herself in the warmth of his touch, the quiet assurance of his words, and the steadiness of his presence.

he is not angry. this is what she clings to.

íruna exhales slowly, letting her eyes flutter closed for a brief moment as she takes in the scent of him, the closeness of him, the calm he seems to radiate even now. her words come in the form of an exhale and the faintest nudge of her nose to the side of his snout. i am sorry, rökkur, her voice is warm as the rosemary they had bathed in only nights before. i did not mean to keep it from you.

her gaze searches his face for understanding, for forgiveness. her voice dips further, quieter, as though the confession is a secret meant only for him. i could not bring myself to tell you. i did not wish for you to feel... cornered. trapped. her gaze falters briefly, dropping to the ground before rising again to meet his. there is a rawness in her eyes now, a flicker of something deeply human, deeply afraid. the gods, they can be cruel sometimes. they bind us to paths we did not choose, and i... she pauses, her breath hitching. i did not want you to feel bound to me out of duty.

her voice softens further, barely above a whisper now. if we are to walk this path, i want it to be more than just what the gods demand of us. i want it to be... ours.

he listens to her words, he hums at her apology and nudges against her, gentle in his touch, his embrace. her confession falls upon ears that listen eagerly. there is little binding him here ; there is no reason, no force (asides from the anger of the gods) for him to remain linked to her, instead the sögumaðr is here because he wishes to be, for it is as simple as him enjoying her presence. it is more than just duty, a murmur.

and so it will be, there is a soft smile upon his maw as he says it, moving from her ear so that he may be in front of her, looking upon her as a husband would a wife. he plants a soft kiss upon her nose, delivered with a liver-hued tongue. though the path was gifted upon us by the gods, we will make it our very own, sögumaðr and læknir, you and i, as the gods have decided, and as all things should be, and it was another kiss that he would plant upon her fur, eyes soft, now, squinted, blinking slowly.

but although there was much time to decide, he could not stop himself from saying: i will take you as my wife, írúna úthafskari, daughter of the dragon's bay, smiling.

íruna is silent for a moment, her breath catching in her throat as rökkur's words settle over her. they are steady and warm, like the crackle of a hearth fire in the depths of winter. the weight she has carried, the uncertainty, the fear of duty without love—it all seems to dissolve in his embrace, in the soft smile he offers her, in the gentle touch of his lips to her nose. relief floods her, evident in the way her body seems to soften against him, the tension in her shoulders easing as she exhales a slow, trembling breath: if i were to wed any man, she says, finite, i am glad it is you, rökkur mánison, moonguardian, faithkeeper. for once, she feels truly seen—not just as læknir, shieldmaiden, or the daughter of dragons bay, but as íruna. wholly, completely, íruna.

she tilts her crown then, brushing it beneath his chin. she presses a soft kiss to the curve of his chin, a gesture of quiet affection, of trust. and i would not wait, she admits, her voice growing firmer now. i am not fit to linger as a betrothed woman for long. i wish to wed you soon, rökkur. let it be a private affair, just you and i, our hárkonungr and seiðkona to bear witness. this should not outshine the union of our leaders, nor do i wish for the weight of many eyes upon us. her gaze softens again, and she steps closer, her voice dipping to something more intimate. i will leap into this marriage with you. and i will stand beside you, faithfully, as your wife.

she hesitates for only a heartbeat before continuing, her voice quieter now, as though speaking a sacred truth aloud for the first time. with you, i see more than duty. i see joy. i see a hearth warmed by pups' laughter. i see a future, a family. i see a man who will nurture me as i will nurture him, who will lead our family. íruna presses her cheek to his briefly, a quiet sigh escaping her as she lets herself bask in the moment, in the relief and the hope that now fills her chest. so let us not wait, she breaths out upon the thick fur of his chest which she presses herself against.