Chapter Text
Nikandros walked the long halls to the throne room, looking over the décor and detail the kings chose together for their new capital home in Delpha. The walls were bare every twenty feet, a hanging of one kind or another to mark the distance, covering white marbles brought in from Ios. The floors and high ceilings hold moldings with intricate designs; Nikandros hasn’t bothered to see what they depict, and he refuses to lower himself to the floor or search for a latter only to find a story filled with sex, as Veretians are prone to telling.
The kings sat on their thrones, heads bowed close. Normally, Nikandros would turn away, because the moment was usually tender and intimate. Now, they were both frowning, talking quickly.
He took a knee before them, catching their attention, then stood and awaited to hear their burden.
“There have been reports of unrest along the border of Alier and Lys. We need you and Jord to take a retinue of men and settle the people. We don’t expect it’ll take more than a couple of weeks before you’ve returned,” Laurent said, sharing a look with Damen, who nodded.
“If it is more than we anticipate or the people refuse to see reason, send word and we’ll have reinforcements come to assist you,” Damen promised.
“Jord should be waiting for you outside with a retinue of men. They have all been briefed already. We thought to let you sleep a little longer since you arrived so late in the night,” Laurent finished.
That was two weeks ago, Nikandros thinks, shivering violently. The sky is an ominous grey, but the threatening snow has yet to fall anew. Jord is somewhere west, looking for firewood not too wet from the snow fall the night before, while Nikandros is hunting rabbits with a bow and arrow.
He can’t remember the last time he’s had to use a bow and arrow, let alone on anything other than a stationary target. His hands are used to holding his sword, perhaps a shield if the occasion called for it.
They’d gotten separated from their men the night before. They’d been marching through a snow storm only to turn around hours later to find they were alone. Nikandros had been chilled to the bone, unaware that they’d out marched their men. Jord hadn’t been as affected by the cold, having lived all his life in Vere, but he’d been up the whole night before. Nightmares, he’d said.
Nikandros could sympathize.
They are paying for their lack of attention now, however.
Nikandros walks back to their little makeshift camp with three rabbits in hand, wondering if Jord has fared well in finding dry wood. The clouds covering the sun suggests not.
When Jord makes it back to their small clearing in the trees, Nikandros has already returned. He’s in the process of skinning a rabbit, and looking to be struggling, if only slightly. Jord watches for a moment, just out of sight from the trees around them, as Nikandros slices into its stomach and up to its neck.
Without a surface to lay the rabbit on or a hook to hang it from, Jord can see how the process wouldn’t be as smooth as that of a butcher’s.
He has a flash of Aimeric in his mind, having no idea how to skin a rabbit and asking Jord to show him, his chestnut curls shining in the firelight and his lashes fluttering in a more than obvious way. Orlant laughing, joking about aristocrats. The easy air around them all hardly a couple of years ago.
He continues passed the tree line, feeling odd in his chest and warm in the face. But he knows it isn’t for Nikandros this time. No, he’s feeling anger. Regret. Shame. Loss. Nothing he wants to associate with the man before him.
Nikandros looks up as he comes closer, bloody knife sat aside now that it’s time to remove the skin. He’s shivering, his cloak lost with wherever his horse ran off to. He’d been convinced to change into Veretian clothing some days back; unfortunately, a sleeveless tunic, but he’s wearing thick pants and knee-high boots. It won’t do much for keeping out the cold, but it’s better than the thin sheet and sandals he’d come to Vere wearing.
Jord sets the measly pile of wood he’s gathered onto a collection of leaves, meant to separate the wood from the snow still settled on the ground.
“We’ll have to use it sparingly,” Jord says, stoking the little flame they still have in their campfire. He hears Nikandros give a grunt behind him; not a confirmation, but from ripping the skin off their dinner. Jord glances up at the sky, dark and thick.
They’ll have more snow to deal with later.
Jord sets to work at making the fire big enough to cook with for now. They’d lost their horses at some point in the night. They’d been forging ahead through the snow, too thick to see the ground properly and having to guide the horses over rocky terrain, but something spooked them—maybe a wolf, maybe a hunter, maybe nothing at all, they were not war horses, after all—and they’d ripped themselves loose, running for the hills. They’d taken most of Nikandros and Jord’s supplies with them.
They’d been chasing after the horses with nothing but their swords, Jord’s bow and arrows, and Jord’s cloak.
They’d taken Nikandros’ cloak with them, resting over his gelding’s saddle.
Jord’s hand throbs at the memory of the reins fighting from his grasp.
“Here.”
Jord turns to Nikandros, holding out the rabbits to be poked and rotisseried. His hand is icy when he passes them over, one by one. Jord stabs a thin enough stick through the meat of their bodies, then props them up on the fire or aside to either cook or be cooked. Nikandros shifts, pulling his arms in close to his sides.
Jord sees him fold his fingers together at his knees, lips pursed. He looks back to the rabbit. “You need to put your fingers under your arms. It’ll keep them warm.”
He glances and sees an incredulous look upon Nikandros’ face.
Jord can’t help but give chuckle. He stuffs his hands into his armpits to demonstrate his meaning; Nikandros has probably never been so cold he needed to do this, even in Delfeur. “Body heat. Keeps you from freezing.”
Nikandros furrows his brow, and Jord is sure he wants to call bull, but he slowly brings his hands to his underarms anyway, folding his biceps down on his fingers. Jord chuckles and returns his attention to the rabbit.
Switching one out for another, he passes the roasted rabbit to Nikandros, still shivering at his side, and lays the next out to cook. His fingers have a little color back to them, and he doesn’t untuck his other hand to eat, so Jord counts it as a win.
Snow starts to sprinkle onto them once more as the sun begins to set. With their dinner had and their daylight dying, they set about a plan for the night.
“There are no materials dry enough to create a tent,” Nikandros mutters, eyes turned to the trees around them. He has his hands folded under his pits once more, his flesh pimpled from the cold.
Jord shakes his head. “No, and this forest doesn’t have the proper material anyway. It’s mostly pine trees because of the mountain weather, and any other trees will be bare for the season.” He gestures to the trees around them, without their leaves and their branches collecting snow, as if to say, ‘do you see?’
It grows quiet then, and Nikandros’ face becomes more pensive with each moment of silence that passes between them. “So, we sleep on the snowy ground then?”
“That seems to be our only viable option, unless we wish to wander through the night in hopes of coming across civilization.” He doesn’t mean it as a serious option, but Nikandros’ eyes almost light up at the idea of not staying out in the cold for any longer than necessary. Jord deflates. “I was only joking. We can’t do that.”
Jord can see Nikandros stiffening, probably fighting back the same shivers that have wracked his body for the last several days. “Why couldn’t we? What if we are near a town, and simply cannot see it through the trees?”
It’s a valid question, if one has not worked the border nor knows the layout of a cold-weathered country. He shakes his head again. “If a town were nearby, we would have seen signs of it along the way,” he says. “And no town is this close to the Vaskian border; the mountains are too low. Raiders would have too-easy a time coming over to attack.”
Nikandros loses his gleam of hope for a warm bed, and Jord feels almost bad for stealing that light from his eyes. But with the chances for night predators or freezing to death after getting lost being as high as they are, he feels this is for the best. Nikandros will forgive him, if it means they live another day.
He does still feel somewhat bad though. “I can take first watch," he offers.
Nikandros looks at him for the first time in hours, and Jord turns away. He’d been fine before, speaking to the man’s profile, but he isn’t prepared for the intensity of his dark eyes. The snowy ground is easier to stare at than Nikandros’ searching gaze.
Out the corner of his eye, he can see Nikandros nod. “Sure. Three hours shifts?”
“Sounds good.”
It’s his second shift, and Jord has been marching a ditch around their small perimeter for nearly an hour now. Nikandros is curled up by the dying fire. Jord passes a fist over his eyes, sleep calling to him. He stumbles over the same root for the second time, and concedes he may need to sit for a moment.
Nikandros hadn’t really slept during Jord’s first watch. He’d lied down, but he hadn’t actually closed his eyes. However, the sun had been fresh-set then, and now it is well and truly night, and the snow is coating the ground.
Jord tries to step quietly over, thankful for the fluffy snow they get so close to the mountains. The snow along the coast is wet and heavy. It crunches noisily underfoot.
Jord brushes the snow from the log and takes a seat.
Nikandros is at his feet, shivering and clutching his sword to his chest. Even from his poor angle, Jord can see the furrow in his brows. The snow stopped falling some time ago, but the cold would only get worse as the night wore on.
Jord’s eyes find scars that cut deep across Nikandros’ shoulder. Two lines, too close and symmetrical to be separate occasions. He wonders where they came from, how old they are, then realizes he knows very little about the man with him.
He realizes also that he wishes that weren’t true.
He’s about to turn his gaze back to the fire when the wind picks up and Nikandros shivers again, viciously.
Jord stands, and comes to kneel behind the shivering man. He unclips his cloak, pulling it from his shoulders, and instead drapes it over Nikandros’ form. The shivering doesn’t stop, but it is lessened, so Jord counts that as a win. He gets back to his feet and picks back up his patrolling.
Nikandros wakes with the sun peaking over the horizon. He blinks, feeling slightly off and not sure why.
He sits up.
He should have been woken up for his shift hours ago.
His eyes scan quickly to find Jord, and they do, settling on the man sitting against the log at Nikandros’ back. He has bags under his glazed eyes, but he gives a smile when he looks at Nikandros. “I hope the cloak helped with the cold.”
Nikandros follows Jord’s eyes and looks down at his lap, finding Jord’s cloak slumped over his legs.
His chest grows tight too quickly for his liking, and he shoves the feelings away before they compromise his face. “Thank you,” he says, stiffly.
