Duskfire Glacier marrok

the wind howled against the ice.
it rolled off the glacier in great gusts, whipping across the frozen lake in a fury of white. faust stood at its edge, unbothered by the cold that bit at his fur, his breath a slow, steady fog in the crisp air.
eyes scanned the horizon, taking in the endless stretch of ice, the jagged peaks that loomed in the distance. this place was harsh, unforgiving—but so was he. he had chosen it for that reason. only the strong would thrive here. only the relentless would carve a home from the frost and stone.
beneath the ice, water sloshed against itself, a deep, hollow sound that echoed in the stillness. the lake would thaw come spring, but for now, it was an expanse of frozen silence, a reflection of his own thoughts.
he flexed his claws against the frost-hardened earth, exhaling slowly.
darukaal would rise.
soon.

@Lousine

lousine had busied herself with putting together the altarpiece inside she and faust's den.

her work was slow and deliberate, and had been going since the first light of day yawned upon duskfire. she laced flower stems between sticks, and placed her collection of multi-colored stones and flower petals right in the center of a triangle. it would've been considered bare bones to the untrained eye, but lousine could already feel the pleased gazes of her Gods over her shoulder.

by the time she got up to stretch her legs and convene with faust, it was already midday. fierce wind snarled at the denmouth and cut across lousine's face in dagger-sharp gusts. she all but scurried through the meadow, and by the time the lake's frozen surface could be seen over the hillside lousine was frozen from the ankle down.

she found faust standing, alone, at the lake's edge, watching as chunks of ice clashed and drifted.

there's drinking water downstream, you know, she prodded somewhat playfully as she approached, tail swaying behind her in slow strokes.

faust doesn’t turn to her at first, his gaze fixed on the jagged ice breaking against itself. the sound is a low, groaning thing—ancient, patient.
not thirsty, he mutters, voice carrying just enough for her to hear over the wind’s howl.
but he lets her come closer, allows the warmth of her presence to settle beside him. she always had a way of making things feel less empty, less bleak. it was frustrating sometimes—how easily she could color the world in softer hues.
after a beat, his head tilts slightly, emerald eyes flicking toward her from the corner of his vision.
did you put it in our den? the words are gruff, but there’s no real bite to them. he already knows the answer. he can smell the petals and earth clinging to her coat.
she’s done as she pleased, as she always does. and somehow, against all logic, he doesn’t mind.

if you aren't thirsty, what are you doing? lousine asked quizzically. just admiring your own reflection? i would be too, if i were you.

she pressed in close, leaning her head against the broad expanse of his shoulder. she looked down at his forelimb, reaching out with a paw to run her nails over the scars that spread up and down his leg. she wondered how they got there. what their stories were.

she wondered if he would ever tell her. but she wouldn't ask, not today.

i put it in a corner, so it's not in the way, she grew bashful, suddenly. her cheeks warmed in spite of the bitter chill. i hope you like it. even if you don't believe.

faust let out a quiet, amused huff at her teasing. he turned his head just enough to glance down at her, brow arching in mock curiosity.
you think i'm handsome? the words came low, just above a murmur, but there was a glint of something in his green eyes—something dryly entertained, something knowing.
before she could answer, he shook his head, exhaling through his nose. no. i came here for peace. not to stare at his own reflection, not for vanity, and certainly not to admire anything about himself. but lousine—she had a way of twisting things, of making him engage even when he didn't mean to.
he let her trace the scars on his leg, let her touch and wonder without comment. maybe, one day, he’d tell her their stories. maybe she’d piece them together herself.
instead, his head tilted slightly, shifting topics as he asked, have you met iosef yet? or satori? jora? faust figured she’d cross paths with them soon enough if she hadn’t already. each of them would have an opinion about her—some might approve, others might test her.

of course i do, lousine answered matter-of-factly. would i be here right next to you if i didn't?

she wondered if she was the first woman to tell him that and truly mean it.

it reminded her of satori, of the strange exchange they'd had the other day, and it made something flutter in her stomach. something dark. something selfish.

lousine's expression fell somewhat at the mention of the familiar name. i met satori. she said she was a friend of yours. she seemed... fond of you.

her tone wasn't accusatory, but resolute. questioning an underlying thing that she was unsure if faust would pick up on. for there was this sensitive, raw-scrubbed part of her that yearned for him incessantly; for better or for worse.

his eyes widened for a brief moment—just a flicker—before he caught himself. fond of him? he wasn’t blind. he’d seen the warmth in satori’s eyes, but hearing it aloud was... different.
still, he smothered whatever surprise stirred in his chest beneath something more familiar. something cocky. he gave a low, rumbling chuckle, turning his head to glance sidelong at lousine.
how could she not? his lips curled into a smirk, a teasing lilt undercutting his words. he shifted his weight to bump his shoulder into hers, playful, testing the waters.
but you’re the one here, aren’t you? his voice dropped lower, but the humor remained. doesn’t that make you the lucky one?
he leaned in closer, eyes glinting with mischief as his muzzle brushed briefly along her cheek. the rough edges of faust softened just slightly in her presence—though the fire in his chest never quite went out.

lousine appreciated his gesture, his attempt at humor — but she would have found it funnier had it not concerned their relationship. she was his. this was known, openly shared between the two.

but was he hers?

i suppose it does, she quirked a brow. but you cannot blame a woman for asking.

she let him close the distance between them, her forelimbs reaching up to rest upon his shoulders. her lips parted and from them snaked a long pink tongue, grazing against the hammering pulse in faust's throat.

her voice came low and smooth like a buttery molasses. if no other man is to touch me, no woman is meant to touch you either.

his chest rumbled with a low chuckle, rough and warm, as her tongue brushed against his throat. she knew how to play him, how to make his blood stir. he lowered his head, grazing his muzzle along the curve of her jaw, teeth just barely teasing at the velvet of her ear.
jealous, are you?
his voice was edged with amusement, but there was something gentler beneath it—something reassuring. he knew the feeling. had felt it, perhaps, when she first spoke of her gods, her loyalty given to something beyond him. it was a foolish thing, but it was there all the same.
he nipped lightly at her neck, playful, before drawing back just enough to meet her eyes.
you’ve nothing to worry about. his tone softened, though it was firm, resolute. i am yours, lousine.
his gaze lingered on her, dark and steady, before his lips twitched into that faint smirk again.
but i like it. you being possessive.

lousine ached.

she felt his sanguine touch, his teeth grazing the skin of her neck, and she caught aflame with a want she had tried so badly to temper. but it was not just his body that she sought.

she wanted his name. she wanted his children. she wanted it all and the wait was torturous, so torturous that she trembled beneath the slightest brush of him against her, breath caught in her chest, dizziness flooding her head.

why were they waiting?

she was younger than he, but not by much. her body had not yet set itself aflame with womanhood, but that was soon to come. lousine didn't understand and it drove her in endless circles inside her mind, chasing an answer that was not to come.

not from her, at least.

faust, she cupped his jaw with a palm, tilting his head down to hers. her voice was breathy, quiet, lilted with desire. why won't you marry me?

his eyes softened at her question, though a faint flicker of amusement danced beneath the surface. he was not unfamiliar with the yearning she felt—he saw it in her gaze, felt it in the way she pressed into him, tasted it in every touch she laid upon him. but faust was not a man driven solely by desire. he sought more than fleeting passion. he sought permanence. strength.
he leaned down, his nose brushing against her paw, a quiet gesture of respect. his muzzle traced up to her wrist, lingering there as he breathed her in.
the ways of darukaal do not rush such things, he rumbled, voice low but gentle. mates must prove themselves to one another. there are trials—tests. we seek to know if we are truly compatible. not just for now, but for all seasons to come.
he lifted his head, meeting her eyes, letting his gaze settle into hers with the weight of his conviction. this is not a refusal, lousine. i see you. i want you. but i want us to be strong. unshakable. when i call you my wife, it will be with certainty—no doubts, no weakness. only us.
his lips brushed her brow then, a promise woven into the touch. we will walk this path together. and when we reach the end... i will marry you.

though she did not like it, lousine understood.

crestfallen, her gaze fell down to her feet. promise it to me, she gently demanded, keening up against his ear. that you will. that i'm not... wasting my time.

not that she thought any time with him would have been a waste. should he ever leave her — as much as she loathed the thought — even now, she knew she would never hate him.

she couldn't.

she pressed her face into his chest, cold nose against his throat, and she nuzzled him there, feeling the rumble of his husky voice. her paws fidgeted. the silence stretched before she blurted so suddenly:

because i think i'm falling in love with you.

his breath hitched—just once—before he steadied it, chest rising beneath the press of her cold nose. for all his strength, all his years, he felt undone by her. the weight of her words settled like snowfall on his heart.
his muzzle dipped, brushing against her crown, lingering there as though he might commit the scent of her—fresh, wild, untouched—to memory.
i promise you, his voice was low, roughened by restraint, but certain. we will mate. you are not wasting your time, lousine. not with me.
a pause, his throat tightening.
i will give you everything. i swear it.

she loved doing this to him.

there was power in the way her blood surged and her head grew feather light. the caress of her nails upon his arm, the beating warmth of her breath. she knew what it did to him, saw it in his eyes, and she wished she could pocket this feeling and keep it for an eternity.

shimmering eyes, bouncing back up to look at him. a smile began to stretch across her lips.

darukaal will rise, and i'll give you many sons to pass on our name, her touch lingered upon his wrist. her tone was light, almost dreamy, caught in a whisper. i'll give you everything too, faust.

his lips curve into a slow, knowing smile—one that does not quite reach his eyes, though there is no absence of warmth. she was young, so young, with dreams still untarnished by the weight of reality. she did not yet understand the gravity of what she offered.
his fingers ghost over hers, steady, grounding.
it is not sons i want most, lousine. his voice is low, firm but gentle, a vow wrapped in steel. it is a wife.
darukaal would rise, yes. his blood would pass into the next generation, as was expected. but it was not expectation that pulled him to her, that made him bend to meet her gaze, his breath skimming her cheek.
it is you i want.
his paw traces the delicate bones of her wrist, reverent, as though committing her touch to memory.
sons will come. but i do not need them to make this real.