Chapter Text
the snow starts just before sundown. wonpil sees it just as he's stepping from the edge of the pinewood forest from where he had just appeared, shuddering against the cold. his chestnut hair and heavy cloak rustle in the chilling breeze and the closing of the portal behind him.
tilting his head back, the cloud of exhaustion that escapes from his mouth momentarily obscures his vision and with a heavy sound that’s almost too loud in the silence.
he knew he would be going somewhere far. far from his hometown in the countryside, far from the borderline, and undeniably far from the academy. it’s what they had wanted – what he had wanted.
but even then, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. growing up within the stony and ancient academy walls for most of his life, he had forgotten how quiet it was when there weren’t so many people – so many magical people – around.
even by the countryside, he realizes, it was never this quiet. the sounds of nature and the vibrations of ageless beings were always present until it eventually fell back to a backdrop of noise static. how could he had forgotten? his home, his roots.
the small hiss behind him is lost in the heavy crunching of his boots over dead leaves and branches freezing over.
he doesn't look back to watch the portal close completely.
he knows exactly when he’s crossed the protection line when he passes through something rippling like a veil and the low hum of working magic presses against his mind, more of an aura than a sound.
a deep surge rises in his chest at the feeling. this is no doubt sungjin’s magic, which makes sense, as the safehouse is the older’s. he had offered it to wonpil to stay as the council deliberates its final decision, saying offhandedly that it was abandoned by his family ages ago and could use some fixing up.
sungjin has always been tough and fair, but also so kind in his own way. everyone, including wonpil, knows that the council would never rule in his favor. he was different, never followed their rules. was never good enough. it would be mercy at this point if they don’t make a decision at all and let him live out the rest of his long, long life here alone.
he tries to stop the rising panic from seeping into all of his veins, into all the emotions that he’s already trying to hold in right now by tugging his cloak closer and ducking his head down as he continues to trudge forward.
as the youngest of the four friends by a wide margin as well as the newest to join the academy, wonpil is forever grateful that he had older friends to learn after. their ways of magic, the rules of their existence. sungjin and younghyun have been alive far longer than they can keep track of, so they weren’t as understanding. jaehyung had accepted the fact of the extraordinarily long lives mages like them have just before wonpil arrived, so he helped ease the anxiety and pain.
but even then, he was always much better at making sense of things, moving on, and letting go.
wonpil was never good at letting go.
he had cried when he found that he was going to outlive his own parents and siblings and everyone he knew back home, and even harder when he finally did two decades ago and wasn’t even there to witness it.
he was never good at letting go. which is partly how he even got in all this mess to begin with.
but truthfully, he thinks, it was a long time coming. at least he can now learn how to be on his own and no longer be a burden to everyone around him.
from the edge of his vision, he catches sight of the thatched roof from under the rim of his cloak, he feels his heart lift. when he stops at the top of the hill, looking down at would be his new home, he can’t help but let out a low laugh.
the cabin is very much intact and strong against the elements, flanked by the evergreens around it. there is a porch and an empty fire pit out front, and even a small swing by the front door, swaying slightly. the structure seems almost freshly renovated, had not for the ivy crawling up its walls in a way that the older mage would not have let happen.
sungjin was always meticulous, brilliant, and hardworking. it’s no wonder he would the favorite…
shaking his head, wonpil takes a deep, deep breath, taking in the pines and chilling snow. this is it, the beginning of his new life.
even with the heaviness and bitter aching he still very much feels, he allows himself this moment of content vulnerability. turning over a new leaf in the dead of winter and starting over once again.
he gets busy right away, settling into the cabin and checking up on everything. sungjin was very thorough, making sure that all the essentials are provided for – silverware, fluffy blankets, and a magically charmed greenhouse in the back to grow vegetables and fruits.
younghyun had added his own touches to the space, pots of ever-blooming flowers and glowing lanterns that ignite when he walks in every room and drift about until he leaves. wonpil feels so overwhelmingly well-cared for and aches to think that he can’t do anything to return the favors, or even at least to thank them.
at the same time, as he visits each room, it becomes very clear that one of the three had not contributed to the decorations.
but as soon as he thinks this, wonpil berates himself, for thinking that jaehyung would have done something. the older had already made clear his choice before he had left and moved on in the way that wonpil could never follow or quite understand.
so he chooses instead to be grateful and makes sure to appreciate all that he has, doing all that he can to keep away the thoughts of all things he had left behind.
it takes a few days for the snow to fall enough for it to start sticking.
by then, the lodge has started to take on that scent and aura of being lived in. books snuggled together on the bookshelf, items moved to lower shelves where wonpil can actually reach them, and the like.
his first project is converting one of the backmost rooms into a reading room, the longest time was spent transfiguring the stretch of wall into an insulated set of bay windows that gives him an incredible view into the small clearing behind the cabin.
they had left him so many books, though a little less when he doesn’t include the ones not in korean or in runes, he was never good at deciphering those. the window conversion was one idea he had gotten from an older edition of a home improvement spell book.
jaehyung would have laughed and say that it shows, in the outdated design.
wonpil isn’t sure whether the pang following that thought is less painful than before is because he’s moving on or that he’s becoming numb.
he’s not sure which one is worse.
time moves much differently here than in the academy. it moves both slower – the days and nights seem longer – and almost a breakneck pace – things start to blur together as the novelty wears off.
he still manages to keep busy, but the downside of having the cabin so furnished is that there are increasingly fewer things to do. he still sings sometimes, but even that beings to lose its luster.
he only wishes that he could share it all with someone special.
the ancient trees sing, he finds, and especially so as the snow continues to fall in waves and pile slowly up. he hadn’t noticed at first because it is at a lower frequency than he is used to.
but he thinks it may also be because he lasts only two weeks in before he can’t hold back or deny the loneliness that now clings to him so suffocatingly tight.
the ancient trees sing, and god does it ache.
the loneliness accompanies him the most heavily as he practices his magic. it's hard without the guidance that he's so used to having, though nowhere as hard as trying not to remember. especially every time something cracks, slips, burns, spills, overflows, breaks, all he can think of are soothing hands always ready, never far.
his favorite days are when the animals come to visit.
it starts with a sparrow that broke its wing against a tree not far from the greenhouses. he sees it trembling violently against the morning frost around it and it tries to hop and flutter away when he comes towards it, but ends up cowering against the tangled roots.
wonpil fights the flooding sadness inside his chest as he crouches down with an outstretched hand. the bird’s breast continues to tremble rapidly.
“easy, love,” he whispers, pulling from inside him some magic. “i mean you no harm…”
at the sound of his voice, the sparrow stops. looks with bright eyes between wonpil’s kind ones and the sunflower seeds now sprouting from his open palm. takes a few hesitant hops then settles against his protectively curling fingers.
“that’s right…” wonpil whispers, cupping it close, “good… good, I got you…”
and from the way the sparrow lets itself be held under his cloak, eats a few seeds before closing its eyes, it believes it too.
it takes a few weeks for the bones to heal. wonpil is diligent in keeping it clean and feeding it, slowly graduating it to short test flights inside the reading room with plenty of encouragement.
his chest fills with something deeply bittersweet when one day it takes off and circles around his head like a halo, chirping happily. when he knows that tomorrow is that day he will return it back to the forest.
that morning there are no clouds in the winter sky and the frost glitter from all angles.
he brings the sparrow close to his face, feeling the soft feathers against his cheek as it coos softly. thinking it well wishes and watching it flutter its wings testily before suddenly flying off into the open sweep of sky.
for a brief moment, wonpil’s heart feels as if it may have taken flight too.
after that, then all manner of animals come to him. first only the sick and injured, looking for healing, but then more come for simply for comfort or curiosity.
sometimes wonpil will wake, far warmer than usual, with small animals curled against him in every crevice without falling off the bed that he has difficulty moving. every so often he’d see non-forest native animals wander in like a pair of mountain goats or a single gray cat, and he’d always jokingly ask in soft tones, if they were lost. other times, he would be cooking and feel a small nudge against his back in askance. so now he keeps bowls of vegetables and seeds around the cabin and on surfaces, regularly close and within reach.
when he lights the fires at in the late afternoon, they join him around his chair, sharing the company and warmth, wrapped in the safety of each other’s presence.
but in this strange unspoken way, all of the animals leave when the sun sets, leaving wonpil alone every night. even when they’ve just padded in or settled into different corners, once the last slivers of sun beams fade for the day, they always leave.
he tries to fight the disappointment and to hide the crestfallen expression each time he hears them start to get up by getting up too and opening the door for them as they file out.
again, he tries to stay grateful, and it’s easier the next time they return. but every time, he still can’t stop the feeling of abandonment.
over time, his voice starts to fade, but he doesn't notice.
he’s so used to whispering soothing tones to not startle the animals, especially the small ones. even if he had his voice, though he’s not sure what he would say or to whom, if he had anything to say at all.
but it finally breaks him when overnight, the snow suddenly piles so high that he can hardly open his door.
he’s buried in blankets on the couch, cooking book in his hands and resting on his knees. but he hasn’t been reading it, hasn’t been for a while, unfocused eyes having drifted off towards the fire, thoughts disjointed and hazy…
it happens out of nowhere. it had been building like the snow, but it hits its breaking point. wonpil feels like he’s being torn apart, from the inside out. it’s cold, deep inside the edges of his heart where nothing physical can touch.
he’s shaking and he staggers off the couch to start pacing, forcefully rubbing up and down his arms to scrub away the chill that burns the underside of his skin.
all at once, the four wooden walls around him are too too close, collapsing like his lungs around and on him. he has to get out, somewhere, now.
before he knows it, he’s standing there knee deep in thick snow, rapidly soaking through his thin pants and numbing him even more to his core. finally catching his breath for an instant, tipping his head back, he stares up the dome of the sky. so clear now that the snow has stopped falling and there is a thin sliver of moon and yet so...starless.
then there is something brilliant and bright, streaking across the sky in its descent. a shooting star. then another and another and another… it’s a meteor shower.
awe floods all the empty crevices in his lungs and it mixes with the still-brewing despair in his chest now until it finally overflows.
closing his eyes and baring his teeth, he can’t stop the hot tears from slipping down his cheeks.
“I just want company in this cold isolated world…” he chokes out to no one in particular. “I don’t want to be alone anymore…”
he squeezes his eyes so hard that he sees more stars bursting behind his eyelids and for an instant, he thinks that maybe someone – out there somewhere – is listening.
the cabin seems almost smaller, colder when he finally wanders back in however much longer after, shedding his frozen clothes with difficulty, so he draws up a bath and slowly peels each layer off in the steaming water.
with all his tears, all energy is sapped and the haziness sets back in like a dense fog. he wonders how long he’s been like this, this displacement, and didn’t know it until now.
just as he was about to crawl back into bed, three things happen in such quick succession that they seem to happen all at once:
first, a deafening boom like thunder that shakes the entire foundation of his house;
next, a great spike in magical energy that clashes with his equilibrium so intensely that temporarily stuns him;
and then a shattering of glass downstairs.
straightening with adrenaline coursing through his veins and panic pounding in his ears, he hastily grabs a handful of energy orbs under his bed that he keeps in emergencies like this. he shudders as the wave of renewed power floods through him. then he makes a few preemptive protection spells before creeping down the stairs.
all the lights are still on, though some of the floating lanterns had toppled to the floor from knocked out of the air by the power spike. his eyes are drawn to the window across from him next to the front door where the entire plane had been broken, now letting in cold winds.
something shifts to his left and he immediately lowers himself into a fighting stance, restraining himself from attacking.
a form in the shadows is rapidly growing and extending and forming a body, broadening until... a man stands shakily up. he is well-muscled, bare to his waist where loose pants hug the defined line of his hips. the lantern light from all around them throws all of his sharp features into even sharper relief.
wonpil can’t help a gasp when he meets the stranger’s eyes through low-hanging bangs as he takes two steps forward and wonpil only gets a glance of brilliantly green eyes before the man collapses on the floor.
wonpil moves before his thoughts catch up to him. he's rolling the man over onto his back as gently as he can, then crouching over him with two fingers on the stranger’s jugular.
a pulse, weak. breathing too ragged, irregular.
but he’s too cold, inhumanly cold. wonpil lifts his hand to push back the dark stiff bangs and is now burned by the heated skin at the forehead.
just as he retreats his hand, he stops. he first notices a tuft of white amongst the black of the stranger’s hair, but it does not strike him anywhere as much as how young this man – this boy is, who looked hardly older than himself, if he had walked in time like humans.
he must have only reached adulthood recently.
time freezes and wonpil is trapped in the center, at a complete loss.
a stray boy who broke in –
he realizes then with a jolt, that strangely none of sungjin’s protective charms or alarms have been set off in all of this. it’s not dark or malicious magic that would bring immediate damage, but it doesn’t mean it still can’t harm.
wonpil bites his lip, thinking hard. through his reasonings and clashing emotions, a memory rises to the surface.
of jaehyung once saying that he was too trusting, that one day he’d get burned.
but no, this stranger was in need now. new determination sharpens wonpil’s focus. he knows what he must do.
he’d get his answers later.
he somehow manages to bring the boy up to his own bed with minimal magic and once he’s prepared enough blankets around him and the right tools, gets right to work.
it’s far past midnight now, wonpil knows for sure, but it’s the only thing he is sure of now as he tries to keep his breathing and panic down.
the strange boy has a high fever that just won’t break, even without all the regulating spells that wonpil casts. it’s so high that wonpil is afraid that even if it does break, that the boy will suffer brain damage or even… he shakes his head.
no, focus. concentrate.
but there’s nothing he can do. he falls into a chair beside the bed and buries his face in his hands.
nothing else he can think of, even after racking his brains and shuffling through spellbook after spellbook. his own supply of magic is near its end and he’s getting so tired, so desperate...
...don’t... leave...
the two words are faint and distant, but so clear in his head that wonpil whips his head up, thinking that his patient had woken.
but he hadn’t, still sweating beneath the blankets and cold compresses, shuddering, and breathing labored.
as wonpil takes in the furrowed eyebrows and sweat-slick skin, his own voice from years far past echoes back to him now.
to the time a council elder had blocked his entrance to help a young female patient that the council had decided that they were going let die. he was so young and so new and so full of dreams – could not understand why younghyun and sungjin were pulling at his arms, and even jaehyung with a firm arm around his waist pushing him back down the cold corridor.
and wonpil had screamed as he was dragged away by his friends, "what's the point of having magic if you can't help anyone with it?"
there’s nothing else he can think of, even after racking his brains and shuffling through spellbook after spellbook. his own supply of magic is near its end and he’s getting so tired, so desperate…
except…
the boy coughs and as wonpil replenishes the bowl of water and tips it back carefully against his lips, cleaning any excess that escapes and some of the sweat, he thinks.
that particular elder was known for always overindulging in wines. wonpil had watched him perform the complex spell to relieve the head pangs countless times. even used it a few times himself to help others heal muscle aches after strenuous work.
purpose strikes deep and heavy and wonpil smiles despite it all.
because he knows and now he can do what he does best – care for others.
the fever breaks just as the sun does too over the horizon. the boy’s breath has evened out as well, a low steady rhythm across his broad chest in deep sleep, and he stops shuddering.
now hardly able to keep his eyes open, wonpil tidies up as quietly as he can before stepping out into the sitting room. then he collapses into a nearby sofa with a loud full-body exhale and closes his eyes.
and he thinks, with a faint smile of relief, “I did it. I did something right...for once…”