Chapter Text
The wind picked up as Petre made his way deeper into the forest. The frozen top layer of snow gives way under his weight, swallowing up his boots completely. The path had long since been lost by the swirling mass of powder and the loss of daylight. The farther he trudged on heavier the snowfall seemed to get until there was no telling where he came from or where he might be going.
Worse than the cold and the wind was the relative silence. Since entering the forest there hadn’t been any evidence of life. There was no bird’s song or distant wolves howling. The only sound other than his own footfalls was the rustling of the bare branches in the wind. After pushing through a tangle of twigs and frozen vines, Petre finally found some evidence that he wasn’t the first person to have ever come this way. A cleared path. Someone must have maintained this. Which means it must lead somewhere.
The wind picked up again as he tried to decide which way to go. Petre drew his coat closer around himself and coughed into the hood. He’d better decide quickly. The longer he stayed out in the wind and snow the worse off he was likely to be.
He’d entered the path from the side. It was possible that he was completely turned around and one way would lead back to town but just as likely that neither way would take him somewhere that he’d been before. Gazing in either direction gave no indication that was even anything at the end.
“Left then,” Petre said to himself because the silence was too much to bare. His voice was horse and sounded congested. Which only made him want to hasten his pace.
No sooner had he taken a few steps than there came a strong wind blowing directly in his face. Petre braced against it but it didn’t seem to be let up until he turned away.
“The wind wants me to go right,” he half said, half coughed. He might as well not fight the wind. Either direction was just as likely to be correct.
With the wind at his back the trip down the path went quickly. Soon the path opened up and a small cottage was visible above the expanse of snow. The windows were dark, but that didn’t stop him from breaking into a run. Frantically he began knocking. There came no answer or any sound from the inside.
This was where the wind lead and his only chance of surviving the night.
Petre tried the handle; the door swung open with such force that he stumbled forward onto the floor. Before he had a chance to process what happened a gust blew from the opposite wall and caused the door to swing shut.
It wasn’t much warmer inside the single room cottage. At least it was out of the elements, he might have thought if it wasn’t for the breeze coming from the fireplace.
Fireplace!
Petre scrambled to the fireplace. It took him a few tries at striking the match to get it lit. Slowly, painfully feeling returned to his hands and he was able to pull off his pants along with his coat, boots, socks and set them by the fire to dry.
Barging into a stranger’s house and lighting their fireplace was one thing but he had to draw the line at crawling into a stranger’s bed. Wrapping up in one of the blankets on the floor wouldn’t be overstepping though.
The next day he woke up far too comfortable. Once he opened his eyes it was obvious why: he had, somehow, ended up in the bed.
And he wasn’t alone. There was a man sitting on the edge of the bed. He was the most beautiful person Petre had ever seen. Although, maybe he wasn’t thinking straight, the man’s combination of dark skin, white hair and bright blue eyes were certainly striking. For what seemed like an eternity the man simply watched him with a neutral expression.
Finally, Petre decided to break the silent staring. “Sorry, I didn’t—” He began to say, attempting to sit up, but a coughing fit cut him off. The man reached out to gently lay him back down. His hands felt cold, even through Petre’s shirt. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You’re no intruder. I brought you here.” Petre must have made a confused face, because the man added “This is my forest and my storm.”
Petre sniffled, “Oh.” Too tired and sick to process what the man was telling him. All that mattered was that he didn’t mind Petre staying here, in fact he must have been the one to tuck him into bed. That was nice. He was lucky to have found this place and this person.
Petre wasn’t sure what time it was when he woke up again. The light coming in the window is a dim golden glow and something about it made him think it wasn’t the same day. He was aware of the man moving around in the house but couldn’t sure where exactly where.
“Good, you’re awake,” Petre hears somewhere to his left. Then light footsteps coming closer. “Drink this.”
“What…?” Was all he could manage to croak out.
“It’s been at least a day since you’ve eaten. I know enough about humans to know that isn’t ideal.”
For the second time, “oh” was the only response Petre could muster, but this time he wasn’t sure if he’d managed to make the sound before he was being lifted into a sitting position and a bowl was pressed to his lips.
He tried to keep up with the pace he was being forced to swallow the contents of the bowl, but that was made difficult by the burning in his throat and the growing ache in his lungs. Eventually he had to push away to have a coughing fit, spilling the soup down his front and into the blankets.
The man stayed where he sat on the edge of the bed watching wide eyed until Petre was able to calmly take in a breath. When he looked up, the man visibly relaxed.
“Perhaps that was too much,” he said. It was the first time Petre had heard even a hint of uncertainly in his voice.
“Who are you?”
“I brought you here to save you from freezing.”
“Thanks for that but who are you?”
“I am a spirit of winter.”
“What is your name?”
“You can call me Vant.”
“Vant, I’m Petre. Was that so hard?”
“I don’t meet many people.”
“I can tell,” Petre started to laugh but it quickly turned back to coughing.
That time, in his uncertainty, Vant reached out for him. To do what, Petre didn’t know because he jerked away to fall against the pillows.
Undeterred, Vant leaned further forward to place his hand on Petre’s forehead.
“Your hand is cold.”
“I’m always this cold,” Vant replied, bringing his other hand to Petre’s cheek.
“It’s nice,” he heard himself say; it had to be the delirium talking.
Vant’s perfect face broke into a smile as he shifted to lay down next to Petre.
“You’re so warm.”
“It’s the fever.”
“I’m going to keep you.”
Petre didn’t know what to say. The idea that there was even something to say to that was a foreign concept.