✧ unraveled. undone.

Twyla had many visions. Most, if she were lucky, occurred in the light of day when she was safely tucked in the corners of her den. Sleep evaded her most often, but this night was different.

She’d fallen swiftly, pulled so heavily beneath the whims of her Star Mother the woman could barely keep her head up. Things were not always clear, and that much was evident when Twyla woke again. Confusion muddled an already blurred vision, brows furrowing as she gathered herself to her feet.

The ground was plush beneath her feet but it was the distant flicker of a glow that drew her steps in a specific direction. The call of something…something wanting of her attention just as much as she wished to see. It guided her forward, through the soft aroma of wildflowers and the echoes of distant happiness scattered across the lush terrain.

It was…happiness that danced across this vision. Serenity. What was the message?

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The only time Igor witnessed a splash of green in the barren landscape he called home in his past life was during the brief, warm embrace of summer. The season marked a time of renewal, when his pack could fill their bellies far more easily than during the harsh, unforgiving winters. As he opened his eyes to behold the breathtaking sight before him, he found himself momentarily pausing in awe.

He was well aware that he had dozed off within the expansive lands Philos ruled over, and unlike the last time, he had not awakened to find himself lost and confused at Philos' borders. No, this vibrant, verdant panorama seemed too extraordinary to be real. It was too perfect, perhaps. A creation born either from the fertile soil of his dreams or, more likely, a glimpse of a divine paradise created by a meticulous hand.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Igor pushed himself to his full height, his broad shoulders straightening. His voice, still thick with the residue of sleep, rumbled absentmindedly, “raj vhodný pre bohov. — A paradise fit for gods"” His steel-grey eyes, ever vigilant even in his dreams, scanned the landscape. They landed on a figure with dark hair, standing in the soft light of the sunlight. Curiosity, an emotion he rarely indulged in, pricked at him enough that he began to approach. Igor was a man of logic and reason and was seldom concerned with the superficial. Yet, even he, in this moment, found himself observing with an objective eye the beauty of the twilight silhouette. “Is this… the realm of Her Goddess?” he inquired, his voice a low, steady murmur.

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Perhaps she might have thought the same if she did not truly know. But Twyla had danced amidst twilight waters when she'd drowned, she'd been fed the pieces of the moon, gilded with the essence of stars—she knew the world, and break her heart as it may, this was not it.

But this voice, one of whom she had not yet placed a face, he very well could not have been talking about her point of faith. Her Goddess, Her Mother. His loyalties might not have lied where hers did, but it did not ease her heart any. If it was not her Star Mother's land, it could've been his Goddess', and if then—why was she here? In another faith, tested again?

Despite her doubt, a soft laugh of delight left her. “Think not.” Though she was sure they both wished it to be. “Just...paradise. Serenity.” Twyla finally dared to turn her gaze backward, taking in the broad male with a soft smile. “You are star?” He was dressed in the cloaks of starlight, and this was...not real. Surely it was plausible that she'd dreamt up a man from the stars, a savior preening beneath the Star Mother's light.

She was no blind woman and her imagination was far more vast than she ever gave it credit for. He was pristine. As rugged as he was beautiful—perfect; did he have something to tell her? A message from her Mother?

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Igor blinked, the movement slow and deliberate, almost owlish, as he regarded the twilight-haired beauty before him. Her soft laugh—a sweet tone that danced on the air—was a balm to his weary ears. The knowledge that he could elicit such a reaction, such genuine delight, was… gratifying. He felt a familiar, yet long-forgotten, stirring within him — the clumsy, exhilarating flush of a youth discovering a crush for the first time. An odd sensation, to be sure, and an even odder notion to have. That his sleeping mind would conjure a woman of eventide, a vision so radiant and seemingly unattainable, let alone one he could dare to dream of meeting in the real world. Perhaps, he realized with a subtle tightening of his jaw, he was far more lonely than he allowed himself to initially believe. He had spent half of his life bound to a wife, surrounded by the boisterous energy of a gaggle of children. But that life was behind him now—a closed chapter, and he, a cudzinec — outlander, believed in looking toward the unwavering future instead of the past.

He hummed a low, noncommittal sound, a barest acknowledgement of her words. This place, this setting, was most certainly paradise. A place where every creature comfort he could desire was readily provided. If he didn’t maintain such ironclad control over his own minute facial tics, he would have blushed at her kind words, a reaction he could ill afford. He was too old, his fur too reminiscent of the timelessness of snow and mountain peaks, nothing as grand or as captivating as she implied. He was certainly no burning star; he was just an old, tired man.

His gaze flickered away, a moment of self-deprecating weariness in his steel colored eyes. “Nie,” — no he murmured, his voice a low rumble as he shook his head. “Just a lost man.” He added, the words hanging in the air like a bad aftertaste.

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She might've pursed her lips in sympathy if he was a child—poor thing. He could not see himself for what he was, what he could be, and that was as much of a shame as this dream was. It was not real. But oh, how she wished it was. He was granting her an attention she preened beneath, a conversation she delighted in despite however short it's been thus far. She enjoyed his company.

Twyla offered a delicate smile as she swept closer, dancing on nimble toes around him before she settled into a sit at his side. “Many stars are lost.” She countered. “Jehikagrī se gevie.” Her lips parted as she turned her head upwards. “Bright and beautiful, still.” Her chest expelled a sigh. It was different here, too peaceful to be real but too real to be her imagination. She didn't wish to wake. To leave her newfound star.

“Lost are you how, qēlos?” She asked kindly, her soft gaze falling to him. He did not look lost, did not seem distant from what she could see. He was a strong force, a sentinel she was envious of the longer she stayed within his presence. Her head tilted curiously. “Why do you frown so?”

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Igor exhaled slowly, a deliberate release that caused his broad chest to swell beneath his thick fur. His gaze, the color of polished steel, tracked the woman of eventide as she moved, her nimble feet dancing a delicate ballet around him. A fleeting spark of something akin to amusement glinted in his eyes. She was a river, he thought, a rushing, unpredictable current that flowed effortlessly around any obstacle and he was the rock she flowed around. He envied that fluidity, the way she moved with such unburdened grace, the opposite of his bulky size. He could feel his tail swish briefly against the ground, as if in a nervous twitch, but he quickly stilled it and tried to retain his composure.

When she finally settled near him, he gave a subtle nod. “Perhaps,” he finally rumbled, his voice a low baritone that resonated in his chest like shifting ice. “But I wouldn't dare presume to call myself a star. I am content to be the ice and snow, the silent mountains that observe.” Forever reaching towards the heavens. He subtly shifted his weight, using the movement to catch her scent on the wind. He inhaled deeply, the air filling his lungs with the scent of her. Soft, but firm. Gentle and holding a mystic allure. It was what he imagined her to be; the perfect blend of strength and delicacy. He had to fight to remain still, to not lean into her orbit like a moon would a sun.

Her question drew his attention, thankfully preventing him from making a fool of himself. He blinked slowly, considering her words as was his way before he ever spoke. He gave her his full attention. “I am but a man basking in the presence of Her Goddess.” Perhaps she wasn't a goddess in the traditional sense, but to Igor, she possessed a breathtaking and captivating beauty. Even if this moment, this connection, was nothing more than a fleeting dream, he felt a sense of longing for her, for them. An impossibility, but one he quietly and secretly indulged in even if in the end it will leave him feeling heart sick. “Far from home. Far from my pack. Without my people, I am simply Igor Nikoho. No one.” His gaze held for a moment longer, assessing her reaction before returning to its usual stoic composure.

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But she would. A most bright star, she'd deemed him to be. My, she might even drop to her knees and pray to him if he so requested it, but for now, she would remain in control, gleefully at his side instead. He glowed within her stare, bleeding light that she couldn't help but find herself drawn to, forever beneath his reign. Must he strain himself so much, dimming himself within her presence with restraint and a control she'd rather wish he'd relinquish.

“You are not as cold as snow. Do you thaw much with many women?” For he was far too kind, far too gentlemanly to be a man from the rugged and wild mountains. Did he often visit sleeping women, whisking them away with his brisk charm and holding them captive with gruff words and soft means of flattery? She'd hoped not, for as beautiful as Twyla knew herself to be, she did not think she could compete with any of the women he dreamed with.

Though his control proved steadfast, it was Twyla's that faltered, the soft plume of her tail sweeping across the lessened space between them. Tempting. Wishing. She was no siren, she would not feast upon him at the first sight of affection. But all else was forgotten at his reply, a soft heat blooming across dark cheeks. “Twyla would never dare to take such title. But—” She smiled at him softly. “Thank you.”

Gentle brows furrowed at his words, at his means of depreciation thrown onto himself. Perhaps it was she that was his star, dabbling in his dreams so that she might prove to him he is worth more than what he deems. That he can be cherished more. Loved. Even by the likes of a stranger. “Far from home. Far from pack. Without people, you are Igor Nikoho.” She echoed, her paw settling over one of his own in a tender gesture. “Strong man. Rōvēgrie vīlībāzmio. Great warrior.” She tsked at him.

“Do not lessen.”

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