Chapter Text
In his mind’s eye, Cristoforo stood in the aviary in the western wing. It was one of the warmest rooms in the palace- a space of open cages placed on shelves suspended at waist-height along the walls. Straw covered the ground, thick enough to give the sensation of walking over moss-strewn paths. Light streamed in from long glass windows, interspersed between the archways leading to the sky beyond.
It was only magic that kept the cold out- the same cold that would have destroyed creatures far more durable than those of flight.
Cristoforo had a distinct memory of standing before the crows, allowing them to hop onto his finger so that he could run his hands over their dark plumage. Schwarzloch had almost gotten rid of them that decade, saying that the aviary should house birds useful to the Court, and crows were too ostentatious in a land of eternal winter. The Borderlands Fae did enjoy intercepting royal correspondence.
Cristoforo had argued: they travelled near soundlessly. Their feathers disguised them near completely under the cover of night. And crows were clever- they remembered faces, held grudges as ancient as the Fae themselves.
The Winter heir was unsure which of those arguments was enough to sate the monarch, but the crows were allowed to stay… under Cristoforo’s responsibility- one that the young heir took very seriously.
And then one morning, he came to the aviary to find the doors to the cages all removed. There was no question of the perpetrator. Traces of hybrid magic lingered in the room and after all, there was only one person who would take pleasure in demonstrating the futility of the imposed control. Even later, Scar did not even bother to hide it.
Cristoforo knew that his brother intended him to discover empty cages that morning- a testament to the fickleness in loyalty and affection of lesser creatures.
Scar miscalculated.
With the promise of the open sky, the Fae believed that the birds would fly, leaving their sanctuary of guaranteed food and shelter. There was the sole pair that tried- a male and female. Cristoforo found their frigid bodies at the bottom of the tower a day later. He could not put his finger on the emotion that stirred, but he was not surprised.
In the end, when the choice was between safety and ruin, there was only one correct decision.
When the choice was between safety and ruin, there was only one correct decision.
Cristoforo liked that idea, liked the phrasing. He ran through the cadence in his mind feeling the way the words gave way to sensation… to feeling.
That was what he needed to continue. He delicately dipped his quill into the inkwell before him and returned to his writing, his world where fiction and reality blurred by his design.
To think of the Borderlands was to think of Change personified- where seasons co-existed in an impossible unpredictable flux. Chaos. But in that chaos, most Fae found freedom. Freedom from the Courts. Freedom to live as themselves. Freedom to…
To what?
Cristoforo’s quill stilled. A life without structure. The Borderlands prided itself on such ideals. A territory where order dissolved, where magic ran unchecked. He had seen what such choices led to.
Open doors.
Empty cages.
Cold bodies where warmth had once been.
Chaos was not freedom. Just a… slower form of ruin.
Writer’s block… again.
He leaned back into to his chair, mind drifting away from the sheet of paper in front of him to the sound of the crows around.
Perhaps he was being too obvious. After all, his current story was about star-crossed lovers from the Summer and Winter Courts. If his readers’ first thought was that they could simply go the Borderlands…
No, that wouldn’t do.
Besides, in reality, Cristoforo hated that every diplomatic mission to Summer warranted a journey through. That rules held no sway on the Fae that lived there. That the Crown meant nothing.
Unless… he let them believe in it? A future held just within reach but one they would never claim? He did love his poetic tragedies.
He made a mental note to ask Ciaccona for her thoughts later.
Wait… Ciaccona.
He checked his pocket watch. He was not yet late, but dangerously close to. And that wouldn’t do for an Heir of Winter. But perhaps he could review a scene before leaving for the soiree? Just the one. It had become almost a ritual before each public appearance.
He traced over the words, the names. Avidius. Mya. Cristoforo wrote many a story, but theirs was the first that provided such a comfort.
~~~
AVIDIUS steps into the empty ballroom. Remnants of the evening lay strewn on the elaborate tiles. Deep mahogany tables line the walls. He turns slightly when he hears the door click behind him. MYA enters the room.
Mya: You didn’t have to leave council. Your brother seeks to taunt you. You know this.
AVIDIUS stills.
Avidius (quiet): I am aware. But there is truth in his words.
Mya: A truth?
AVIDIUS turns to face her.
Avidius: I fear… change. Even though each day that passes the walls grow closer… more suffocating.
Mya: Why don’t you leave? On your terms. It would be less of a loss, and more… a choice.
MYA looks at him.
Mya (hopefully): … A choice where you choose me. (short chuckle) You have the power. The door is open. It has always been open for you.
Avidius: You live long enough and realise that not every open door is an invitation. It is a test, a trap. Carefully designed to trap simple minds.
~~~
“FORO, YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE! CEASE YOUR ENDLESS SCRIBBLING.”
Phrolova. She had little regard for his craft.
With a loud sigh that he was certain she overheard, he shuffled his pages together, securing them beneath a piece of fluorite, before leaving the aviary.
The ink still clung to his fingers as he left the room, the scene of pitch pine and oil following him into the colder corridors. Stone replaced straw below his steps as he made a temporary detour to his room to tidy himself, donning his jacket and slicking his hair back till not a strand was out of place.
By the time the murmur of the ballroom reached him, the warmth of the birds and candlelight had been stripped away.
No longer The Playwright. But the Winter Heir.
Cristoforo stood on the first floor, hidden in the shadow of marble column. From there, he could oversee the ballroom floor, scanning the crowd for his companion for the evening.
Ciaccona was easy to spot in a sea of gentle greys, delicate blues and deep greens. Bright-red hair stood out easily in a gathering of Winter. Cristoforo could see the curious looks braved in her direction. But they didn’t linger- the flash of Summer magic was too warm for the minor Fae of the Winterlands. Besides, many already knew of the tale- why a Fae would find herself in the heart of an opposing seasonal court during the Winter Solstice.
How the Heirs of Summer and Winter were… indulging… one another’s company.
A few casual whispers, a handful of court appearances, and sightings of court carriages traversing the Borderlands between official court dates. That was all it took. Cristoforo allowed the rumours to grow. The truth was, after all, a bit too lacklustre for their purposes.
Sparing a moment to smoothen his clothes, he took his time to descend the stairs, allowing the gaze of all attendees to flash to him. It was, after all, why the High Fae of the Winter Court choose burgundy for official events.
What other colour was so stark against freshly fallen snow?
Cristoforo scanned the crowd, as he moved, pleased to see the redhead already drifting toward him.
Like two poles of a magnetic field… he needed to save that for later.
“Foro,” Ciaccona breathed, when she finally stood before him. Cheeks always slightly tinted with a dusky rose, eyes always bright. The effect of the cold on a Summer Fae.
“Ciaccona,” he replied, taking her wrist and pressing his lips to the dorsum of her hand. “I thought you might have been later today,” he continued, voice just above a whisper, “In your correspondence…”
She shrugged, flashing him a knowing smile, “You know how it is. When inspiration strike. I finished the ballad just as the sun grazed the treeline. Getting ready was a blur, I’m sorry I didn’t-”
“Don’t fret over such trivial matters,” he said, cutting her across, “You are here now. You look lovely.”
He enjoyed how the colour in the cheeks deepened at a few simple words. That was the real magic.
“Is… Scar here?” she probed, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“Scar…?”
Did she still enquire into him? After everything? But he did not press.
“To my knowledge, not yet. But he will be.”
She nodded, looking visibly relaxed. “I’m not terrified of seeing him. Far from it. But I much rather an evening without his… gaze.”
“His gaze?” Cristoforo repeated.
“Surely you’ve seen it! This look.” She narrowed her eyes slightly, raising one eyebrow in what looked like amusement or surprise.
Cristoforo shook his head. “That is a strange concept to me.”
“Ah. Perhaps he doesn’t look at you like that. Winter Heir and all.”
Perhaps he did not. Scar scarcely looked at him, to be fair. Every interaction largely surrounded some political dispute that somehow always concerned the Borderlands. Neutral territory was scarcely any concern of the Winter Court.
“Enough about Scar. My brother gives me a headache,” Cristoforo muttered. “How would you like to spend the evening? Having come all this way on such short notice.”
The Summer Fae giggled, moving to stand beside him and interlocking their elbows.
“I just wanted to dance tonight. The song I composed today… you have to listen to it! Remember when you took me to the lake at the border with the Autumn Court?”
“Mmhmm.”
“I tried to capture that… that feeling… when you froze the surface so we could walk across it.”
That… didn’t sound right.
“… When I tried to retrieve your ribbon?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “It was so… elegant. Your magic truly is beautiful, Foro.”
“I would argue that all magic is beautiful.”
“One day, you will learn to take a compliment,” she said with a sigh. “So that’s a yes to the song?”
Cristoforo stepped forward, leading her into the crowd, towards the ballroom dance floor.
“Of course. I always enjoy your work.”
She made a soft pleased sound. “How are your creative pursuits?” she asked as they walked. “Unless you were trapped in official business today?”
He shook his head. “I was in the aviary. Still drafting that play I spoke to you about.”
“The tragedy about the star-crossed lovers?”
“Yes… though I never described it as a tragedy.”
“There are many things you don’t describe as a tragedy,” she countered, "Like that piece you wrote… about the birds in a cage.”
“That was more of a-”
She silenced him with a tight squeeze on his forearm. Cristoforo did not have to look around- he sensed the tendrils of hybrid magic weaving itself from the High Table.
Scar.
“Are you okay?” he asked her.
“Yes… no… It’s hard to say. My body recognises his magic even when I…”
She did not need to say anything further. Cristoforo had seen the effect of Scar’s magic on being far less powerful than Ciaccona. It was the reason mortals would return to this world despite the dangers. Give up their very identity if it meant one more moment in his presence.
Addiction.
Though Scar might have called it love.
But Cristoforo never wondered whether Ciaccona loved his brother. He possessed the uncanny ability to become exactly what another needed in a moment and Ciaccona wasn’t that person anymore.
But the remnants remained.
Traces of magic always remained.
“Shall I give you a reason to forget then?” He murmured.
“Foro…”
He spun her delicately so that she faced him. Her eyes searched his for a moment. Until she registered his hand on her hip, the way he brought the other to her face.
And they lingered in that space that belonged to just the two of them…
Cristoforo narrowed the distance slowly, watching with some satisfaction as Ciaccona’s eyes fluttered shut. As her breathing softened against his shoulder. As for her, the Winter Court completely disappeared.
Cristoforo did not have that luxury.
When his lips met hers, Ciaccona’s shoulders relaxed with a tension she likely did not realise she was holding. It was scarcely their first kiss, but somehow it felt different to the others.
But there was no reason to be.
Why…?
Cristoforo pulled back, not ignoring the way Ciaccona almost imperceptibly chased after him.
As though…?
He banished all thoughts from his head, sparing the briefest of looks towards his brother, before leaning close to Ciaccona’s ear.
“Shall we dance then?”
It was as though the moment evaporated, Ciaccona meeting his gaze with Summer’s warmth.
“Of course.”
They did not speak about Scar for the rest of the evening. Instead, they chose to brainstorm how they would each describe the evening in their artform of choice. Ciaccona painted her inner would with music, humming melodies that made them, on occasion, step offbeat to the music around them. Cristoforo took pleasure regaling the way light refracted in the Winter Court, the way magic bounced like frequencies.
Easy. Comfortable. Predictable… as usual.
Before the evening drew to a close, Cristoforo escorted Ciaccona to her carriage. Better that she had a calm return to Summer. She kissed him again. Longer, deeper.
The way lovers said goodbye when their next meeting was too far in the distant future.
She was breathless when they broke apart.
“What… what are you going to do now?” she asked, her eyes alight with something Cristoforo had only written about. He rarely felt awkward around Ciaccona, but something was different.
“Continue working on my draft,” he murmured, “I find my best inspiration comes at night.”
She smiled again. “Me… me too. I’ll see you soon?”
“You have to play me your song.”
She smiled again- a little wider this time. “Then it’s a date.”
Cristoforo did not dwell on his evening, allowing the music to fade from his mind in favour of the memory of the Winter resplendence. What words could capture the moment, paint an image so vibrant in his readers’ minds that they could imagine themselves in the moment?
He needed silence, and for that, he needed a place of solace.
Of all the rooms in the Winter Palace, it was only in his bedroom did Cristoforo ever truly relax. Gone were the Court formalities, the image of composure. It was where the walls came down and he was finally able to rest, to write.
Very few people came into his room. Scar or Phrolova? Never. Schlarwoloch? Twice in the last century. But with Ciaccona, it was purely business. After all, it was only in his room could he be guaranteed that their words would not be overheard.
He heard the knock on the door- always four beats- and was surprised to see that it was she standing at the hearth when he opened the door. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes alight with something he could not pinpoint.
“Ciaccona,” he began, “To what do I owe this –
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said suddenly, meeting his gaze in a silent request to enter.
Cristoforo stepped aside to allow her in, the door shutting with a click. “My apologies, but what are we talking about?”
“I…” She took a deep breath, “Our bargain. Consider the conditions satisfied.”
Her voice didn’t waver, but it lacked the composure to which he was accustomed. It was only then that his eyes fell to the paper in her hands.
“That is… abrupt,” he began slowly. “You are scarcely one to make impulsive decisions.”
“Don’t.” The word seemed to surprise her, but she forged on. “Don’t reduce this to impulse.”
“Then explain.”
For a moment, she said nothing, her fingers tightening around the papers. Then she crossed the room, to hold them up to him. He did not need to read the words. He recognised the script- his own.
“I was looking for you,” she said. “I tried the aviary. You said that sometimes you go there to…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. But I found this.”
“It’s just a play I’ve been writing. Nothing more.”
“A play,” she repeated quietly. “Yes, that’s what you always say.”
“For that is what it is.”
She stared at him for a moment, as though unsure whether to believe him. He met her gaze evenly- there was no falsehood. He wrote a play.
The sound that came from her sounded like a laugh, but disbelief weighed heavily on her tone. “Is it? And this Avidius. Can you truly say he is truly a creation of your imagination. Or…”
Something inside him bristled. “Or what, Ciaccona?”
“Have you written yourself into this play?”
“No, of course not. A playwright explores reality-”
“That might work on many people but not me. Do you think I, of all Fae, would not understand how one’s true self bleeds into art? Even if subconsciously?” She flipped the pages, and Cristoforo tensed his jaw, keeping the words locked in his throat.
The silence stretched between them. The candle only flickering because of their breaths.
“Read it,” she said.
“I am familiar with my own words.”
“Then hear it.”
He barely had a moment to respond. “Cia—”
“’One hand settled on her waist, the other on the small of her back certainty gracing his movements. They were no longer strangers. He was now well acquainted with the shape of her.’”
Cristoforo’s jaw tightened a fraction.
“’He did not ask. He did not need to. She leaned into him as though drawn by something inevitable- like cosmic dust in a gravitational field.’”
“Stop. That is enough.”
Her gaze went to his again, sharp now. “Is it?”
Cristoforo did not answer and she took the moment’s reprieve to throw the pages to the ground and step closer.
“Tell me why that reads like what happened in the ballroom.”
“It is a common sequence,” He replied evenly. “Hardly unique to-”
“No,” she said, cutting him off. “Not the sequence. The timing. The pauses. The way you…”
She stopped again, breath catching as clarity settled on her features.
“You knew.”
“Knew what?”
“What I would do. Where I would stand.” She stepped closer, the distance a mixture of intentional and confrontational. “When I would speak. When I would… No, even how to kiss me.”
“You are making assumptions…”
“Am I? Or is everything written there,” she gestured to the pages on the ground, “Just phrased more elegantly.”
Cristoforo raised an eyebrow. “A playwright writes from observation and an assessment of probability. People are not as unpredictable as they believe themselves to be.”
“And I?” She crossed her hand in front of her chest. “Am I so easy to predict?”
He opened his mouth to say something. He found his words lacking, so he settled on the simplest response.
“Yes.”
A single word. Honest in the way only the Fae could be. Ciaccona did not seem to be expecting it. She looked away, blinking rapidly before returning to Cristoforo’s chilly gaze once more.
When she spoke again, it was only her voice that filled her silence.
“You know… I wondered,” she said, voice small. “For a while, I thought I was imagining it?”
“Imagining what?”
“That… there was something rehearsed about you. I thought it was composure. Discipline. Traits the Winter Court inculcates in your Fae.” She scoffed. “But this… this isn’t discipline. It’s… It’s… artificiality.”
She seemed to struggle to name it.
Or perhaps it wasn’t a struggle. Perhaps it was a desire not to face the truth.
“Have you written all of it?” she asked instead. “Every conversation? Every… gesture?”
“No,” he replied. But his answer was too quick. And Ciaccona would not miss the telltale sign of a half-truth.
“So some of it was real,” she whispered, “How generous.”
“That is not what I said.”
“Then explain. What did you say? Because from where I stand… it seems like I have been following a script I was never given.”
“You are overestimating the importance of this. My plays… My words… they are a tool. Nothing more.”
“A tool.” She repeated. “Is that what I am as well?”
““When we got into this arrangement, we both knew-”
It was a political arrangement, one that benefitted both of them. Surely she did not forget.
“I remember our arrangement,” she interjected. “I agreed to it. But I did not agree to be studied.”
Cristoforo blinked. “You were not.”
“Oh, but I was. You observed me. Anticipated me. Did you ever not know what I would do? Even once?”
This time the truth sounded cruel, even to his ears.
“No.”
Ciaccona held his gaze, a myriad of emotions crossing her green eyes. Her voice dropped, so quiet he might have missed it. “I was never there, was I? Not really. Just… a version you could understood.”
Then she chuckled, hands moving to hang at her sides. “You know I thought… After all this time, perhaps something would change. Gradual. Subtle. That something might… develop between us.”
Cristoforo thought of them during the Soirees. Their conspiratorial exchanges on the ballroom floor. The dance they both learned until it was no more natural than breathing. The closest thing to a friend that Cristoforo would claim to have.
She shook her head. “But nothing changed, did it?”
“There was nothing to change.”
This time she did not hide the tears in her eyes. Or the way her chest tightened in resolve.
“You don’t love me.”
A statement, not a question.
“That… was never a condition of our agreement.”
“I know. That’s what we said. I just didn’t realise that you would take it so literally. You know…” her smile was tired then. “…Perhaps this is why Summer and Winter don’t get along. Perhaps why… we should have never…”
She broke off again, wiping her eyes on her sleeve as she bent to retrieve the papers. She pushed them into Cristoforo’s chest; his hand went to them on reflex.
“For what it’s worth,” she said quietly, searching his eyes, “The writing is convincing. More convincing than the reality.”
His jaw tightened- a subtle movement- but one that she caught, giving him a small half-smile in response.
“Our arrangement is over,” she said softly, finally, “You don’t have to account for me in your next draft.”
She strode past him to leave.
“Ciaccona.”
She paused but did not turn around, standing on the threshold of the now open door.
“You are making a decision on an incomplete understanding.”
“No, I don’t think I am.” Cristoforo could not see her face, but her tone was level, as if all the emotion had been bleached from it. “I think this is the first time I understand anything clearly.”
She didn’t linger after that. There was nothing more to be said.
Cristoforo remained where he was, unmoving. After a long moment, he drew the pages to reading level, scanning the lines.
A miscalculation-
He paused. No, that wasn’t it. He was sure…
… Yes. A miscalculation somewhere. He just needed to figure out where-
With a sigh, he returned to his desk, setting the pages down onto his stack of unfinished drafts. His gaze went to the door once, half-expecting Ciaccona to walk back through.
But she wouldn’t.
… Would she?