Duskfire Glacier jimmy, you should switch it up

lousine had begun building an altar.

it wasn't much, at least not yet. she'd chosen a location for it in the middle of the woods adjacent to the icefields. a mound of crudely packed together twigs, albatross feathers and crystal-esque rocks she'd found in the loam. it stood out against the treeline somewhat, a little lump above the earth, but to lousine, it was sacred.

with dirty paws she sat back on her haunches and sighed contentedly at her work. she bowed her head to send a brief prayer:

my beloved Selardi, mighty Lord Sin,
please accept this offering i bestow unto you.
i ask you not for a reward, but only for your blessing,
and for the protection of myself, faust, and our home.

@Faust.

she wondered what he would think, using his land for her own practice. she wondered if he would allow her to spread her beliefs to the women and men of darukaal — should it interest any in the hypothetical dream of hers. it was such a nice thought.

she called for him now, a mischievous glint in her baby blue eyes.

he arrived as he always did—steady, unhurried, with that ever-present weight of command in his stance. the call had pulled him from his duties, and while he had not come with urgency, he had come all the same.
when his eyes fell upon what she had built, his brow lifted.
what is this?
there was no irritation, nor scorn, but there was something else—a curiosity laced with something heavier.
his gaze flickered across the mound, the haphazard construction of sticks and stones, the careful placement of feathers. it was crude, yes, but it was deliberate. it had meaning.
his eyes found her next, the gleam in her gaze betraying her amusement, her satisfaction.
you make shrines now? the words rumbled from his chest, low and unreadable. he stepped closer, circling the altar with a slow, assessing glance, before his gaze returned to her.
and what does your god think of me?

it is not a shrine, it's an altar, they're different, lousine corrected firmly yet gently. and there are two of them. Sin and Selardi. sun and moon. masculine and feminine.

she invited him closer with a wave of a foreleg, watching as he began to inspect her work. her smile was delicate, almost sheepish. i've always made them. we set one up in every den that was built. i figured you wouldn't want that in ours, so... i put it here.

his next question had her sitting in quiet thought for a long beat of silence. listening. feeling.

she finally replied, they sent you to me.

faust’s gaze lingers on the altar, unreadable. he listens as she speaks, letting her words settle between them like dust on snow. sin and selardi. sun and moon. he does not scoff, but neither does he nod in reverence.
he looks to her then, head tilting slightly. she was careful with this. caring.
you could put it in our den. the offer comes low, rough, like he isn’t quite sure why he’s saying it. but he does. he doesn’t look at her as he does, instead casting his gaze to the treeline.
he grunts after a moment, shifting his weight. i don’t believe in omens. the words are firm, but lack a bite. faust believes in what he can see, what he can hunt, what he can kill. but she believes.
his gaze drifts back, settling on her face. they sent you to me.
his ear flicks. hm.

it wouldn't make you... uncomfortable? lousine offered. her head tilted. it was a sweet gesture, allowing such a thing in the space of someone who didn't even believe. but the last thing she wanted was to force it. one must choose this path.

you don't have to believe, her gaze turned back to her creation, the fragile little thing, and she leaned forward to fix an out of place stick. but i can tell you that they see a good soul in you. a strong mind and heart. and that they love you, like they love all of their little stars.

she stood up suddenly, padding closer in order to brush her flank against faust's. and that they clearly think we are destined for one another.

faust hums, but it is a sound without commitment. without belief.
it wouldn't bother me.
but she is wrong. there had been no gods for him when he was left alone to the wild, no celestial hands guiding him when his siblings were taken one by one, swallowed by the world. the stars had only ever watched, cold and silent, never lifting a finger to save him.
he lets her speak, lets her fix her little shrine, lets her touch him without resistance. she is warm against him, soft where he is rough, bright where he is dim. he listens, but he does not believe.
you don't know that, he says, gruff, but not cruel. no gods ever had a hand in my fate.
he lets the words settle between them before he exhales, slow and heavy.
but if it matters to you, then put it in our den.

unyielding in her faith, lousine loosed a breathy giggle and shook her head. i won't force you. but you were the one who asked, remember? you can't blame me for what they said. i'm only a disciple.

it saddened her somewhat, to hear how resolutely he disposed of belief in anything greater. not for herself or for the gods, but for him. for how lonely a life like that must feel.

she reached up to plant a soft kiss upon his jaw. her tail beat against his thigh in gentle, repeated thumps. do you want to come with me while i gather materials? i could show you how it's made. maybe you'll like that part better.

he watches her, stoic, as she speaks. faith is an unfamiliar thing to him—foreign, even. but he listens, because she is lousine, and he has never been able to ignore her voice.
her touch is soft, the brush of her tail against his thigh grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. he exhales, slow, considering.
i suppose i did ask, he admits, the barest ghost of a smirk touching his lips.
then, with a nod, he rises to follow her.
show me, then.

show him she shall.

lousine began to lead him further into the woods, out toward the furthest edges of the glacier's range. there, exposed earth beneath the permafrost gave life to certain hardy flowers — fescue and fireweed, mainly — which lousine stopped to pluck a stem or two of each.

fireweed has a lot of uses, she'd commented at one point while they walked. if you throw some petals in clean water and drink it, it's said that it can treat a number of conditions.

next came wood. she carried the sticks in her maw, searching for the sturdiest and healthiest ones scattered along the forest floor. she was meticulous about color, length, width — they all had to be similar.

a clearing in the woods revealed a bed of moss sitting beneath looming spruces. buried beneath the loam were pebbles, all of varying size and hue, and lousine gathered as many as she could.

before either of them knew it, an hour had passed and they were trekking mud into the snow. lousine was giddy, skipping ahead of faust and humming a flowery tune. she turned back toward him to cast him a glance with a frisky, playful glint in her eye. you know, the gods will be very pleased that you're doing this with me.

he watches her, this woman of faith and purpose, and finds himself—against all reason—fascinated.
lousine knows a lot. more than he does about these things, certainly. she moves with intention, with knowledge passed through bloodlines and prayers, through time and ritual. it is a strange thing to witness, this careful, deliberate gathering, as if each piece is part of something grander than he can see.
his steps are heavy behind her, marking his presence in contrast to her lightness. when she speaks of fireweed, he only hums, a low, rumbling acknowledgment. he doesn’t argue its use. it is not his place.
but when she mentions gods, he chuffs, shaking his head as if to dispel the notion like snow off his coat.
if they’re real, they’ve done little for me, he mutters, glancing down at the bundle she’s gathered, the sticks, the stones, the pieces of whatever she is creating.
but he does not stop her. does not mock her. he simply follows, despite himself, despite the disbelief. because if nothing else, he likes to watch her when she is happy.

lousine sighed deeply, her breath puffing out in front of her in a slow pooling of mist. have you considered whether or not they've tried, but haven't been able to reach you?

she paused, losing herself in thought. it was a typical dilemma, a common crisis question that lousine had asked herself a hundred times before. if the gods are all knowing and benevolent, why do bad things happen to good people?

we all choose what to believe and what not to. we all have free will, the light of golden hour cast lousine in a dim glow as she spoke. we choose to hurt each other the same way we choose what we think. the gods will only talk to you if you listen to them.

her smile faded, drifting into a crestfallen look that sat heavily upon her features. have you ever believed in a god, of any kind?

faust is silent for a long time. the kind of silence that stretches, that lingers in the air like a ghost, heavy and full of meaning left unspoken. he does not look at her immediately. instead, his gaze drifts to the sky, where the first hints of twilight are beginning to creep in, chasing the golden light from the horizon.
i believed in the stars once. his voice is quieter than usual, almost contemplative. my mother made sure of that.
his mother. a priestess. a devout woman. he remembers the way she would lift her head to the heavens, whispering words of faith he never quite understood as a child. she spoke of gods with conviction, with reverence, and he—young, impressionable, naive—believed her.
until she was gone.
his jaw tightens slightly. but i learned that faith means nothing when you are left with nothing.
he does not elaborate further. does not tell her about the nights spent searching for meaning in the constellations, only to find emptiness staring back at him. does not tell her how, in his worst moments, he had prayed to anything that would listen.
and nothing ever answered.
so no, i don’t listen. he finally says, his voice firm but not unkind. he exhales sharply, glancing at her then, meeting those pale blue eyes that always seem to see too much. and i don’t think they ever tried.

as much as she didn't want to admit it, lousine understood.

her mien remained thoughtful while she listened to him, and she did listen, soaking up every word and sitting with every sentence even after it had been said. she was silent for a long time. 

my clan went to war, when i was a child, she finally spoke, averting her gaze to the ice sheet floor. we were raided by a clan of... puritans, i suppose would be the word. they thought we were evil. my mother and i were spared. not a lot of other women could say the same.

but i didn't start questioning my faith until i got a little older.

they had, at one point, been the same in that regard. there had been countless nights where her gods had seemingly turned their cheek to her, left her alone and aimless. she had even stopped believing.

it was Them who had pulled her back in, chosen her to continue to worship.

her gaze was sullen, even a tad glassy. what i'm trying to say is that i get it, in a way. and... i'm sorry. i think you deserve to hear that from somebody, faust.

he watches her, listens. truly listens. the way she speaks, the way her voice dips and wavers just slightly when she revisits the past, as if some part of her is still caught there.
she does understand. maybe not all of it—not the nights spent starving, not the years spent wandering with nothing but his own will keeping him upright—but enough. enough to offer words he has never heard before.
"i’m sorry."
it is such a simple thing, but it lands heavier than he expects. no one has ever said that to him. no one ever thought to. the world had simply kept moving, kept demanding, never once pausing to acknowledge what he had lost. what had been taken.
he exhales slowly, something loosening in his chest. faust does not speak right away. instead, he leans into her, pressing his weight into her side—not forceful, not overwhelming, but enough that she would feel it. a quiet acknowledgment. a thank you.
he is not good with words. never has been. but this—this, he can do.
after a moment, he murmurs, voice low, rough at the edges.
i know you do.
and that, too, is enough.