Work Text:
8th of Severe Winter, 1992
Cowdenbeath, Kingdom of Dundee
Planet Earth, Solar System
A623433
It was a cold, miserable day in the Kingdom of Fife.
A sudden snowstorm had overtaken the kingdom with mighty winds and more snow than even the oldest systems had in their records.
Near Cowdenbeath, the grave hermit Ralathor was returning to his home. He had portalled himself home and landed only a few meters away from his cave entrance, yet by the time he was within the safety of his underground lair, his cloak was whiter than the quartz walls of the royal Dundonian palace.
He entered his main living room, which had definitely seen better days, given the recent rise in the amount of use the area got. However, he could not complain much as he entered, for the fireplace was lit and the room warm.
These were, perhaps, the only perks of his new, recently-acquired-without-intent housemate.
“Evening, Snow White. Can’t offer you a kiss to warm you up, but I set the fire going.”
Nevermind, there were no perks. He huffed and walked over to sit down by the fire to warm up his ancient joints (and cast a few runes to ensure the layer of snow and ice from his clothes didn’t destroy his fur rug), ignoring the smug-looking ex-dark wizard who was sitting on his couch and drinking his hot chocolate from one of his favorite mugs. He swore, sometimes Zargothrax seemed to be doing everything possible to wear out his patience.
There were a few moments of peaceful, blissful silence, and Ralathor let himself relax a bit, even undoing his hair from its usual ponytail. He was, after all, exhausted after having spent the past week going around the Kingdom and helping insure that every small community had enough supplies to stay warm and safe during the upcoming storm, which was now upon them. He even let his eyes close as he enjoyed the quiet and and warmth--
“So, I’ve been thinking.”
He didn’t get to relax long after all. “Have you now?” If his voice bore a bit of venom, it was more from tiredness than actual annoyance. Probably.
“Oh shut it, boring robes. Anyways, yes, I’ve been thinking -- so you know how the mortals get cold easily?”
This couldn’t go well. This wouldn’t go well. Ralathor already knew that. And yet, despite his better judgement, his exhaustion won out, and he asked with a sigh, “Yes, what about it?”
“I have an idea for how we can help them not be cold.”
“Get to the point, Zargothrax.”
“So first, we set them on fire…”
Ralathor tuned out the rest of what Zargothrax was saying, hugging his legs towards his chest and resting his forehead against his knees, hair falling around him as a curtain in an attempt to block out the rest of the misery that was the world around him.