Archive of Our Own ^beta

Frost has come, frost has come.
The blackbirds fly down south,
away from the icy mountains,
to feed their hungry mouths.
In search of warmer hearths,
the blackbirds fly together
but the wintry winds of the north
prey upon the weakest hearts.

O blackbird of tired wings,
let the wind carry you on,
and when your feathers fall
from your frozen corpse
the rest will have sung,
Frost has come, frost has come.

O fallen ones, fly ever on
to the silver-peaks of the North
For shame, for shame
that you will never return
to the halls of old Avernost.

☽☽☽

“You’re singing that song again?”

Humming, Mark corrects in his mind. He spares Jisung a glance, the boy’s red nose bearing the only hint of color beneath his thick black robes. His lanky body sways with every step his horse takes, the raven-maned stallion huffing everytime a heavy boot digs into his side.

“It reminds me of home,” Mark tells him, jesting, “Your mount isn’t fond of you.”

“He’s not mine,” Jisung says quickly, as if all too aware of how awkward the ride has been. A faint smile spreads on Mark’s lips, and he looks away to save Jisung from the embarrassment. “Changmin just let me borrow him for this journey.”

Journey. That’s one way to put what they’ve just accomplished. Mark looks up at the starry sky and the pitchblack horizon, before looking behind him to gaze at the distant mountains they’ve left in their wake. Somewhere along those peaks lay a mountain kingdom in disarray, with a dead king and a crumbling castle. Now, Mark rides at the helm of the very army that ruined that kingdom, and his night, just like the seven nights before, is occupied with the steady synchronous march of Eldari warriors in obsidian armor.

He lets his eyes drift further down, to the long line of warriors marching along the beaten path. Among them is a black carriage, and within it a slumbering boy with enough magic in his veins to raze the greatest cities of Metal. Mark finds it odd how such a powerful person lay dormant in the hands of their enemy for such a long time, but all that matters now is that they’ve retrieved him—the Twilight Blossom whose blood, fire, and shadow will rekindle the Deathless Flames of the North.

That boy, just a little younger than Mark, is the key to returning peace to their fractured kingdom, their divided Eldareth. That’s what Changmin says, and Mark knows from tradition and experience that the Ragnar’s word is as good as truth. Their pack has come this far because of him, their Ragnar, their chieftain. Faith in his word is the least they could do to repay him.

“When you say home, you’re talking about Avernost, right?” Jisung’s question brings Mark back to reality, realizing that his steed has stopped in its tracks due to the distraction of its master. Jisung has stopped right beside him, their horses cantering in place over the grass that grew at the edge of the road.

Mark nods towards the way, and they resume their pace beside their brethren. They fall into step with the rhythmic marching of the Eldari warriors.

“It’s a weird song,” Jisung muses later, in a tone that lets Mark know he’s letting his thoughts run through his mouth without a second thought. “How come it reminds you of home? I mean, the lyrics are… and it sounds pretty sad too.”

Mark laughs, but the sound is so soft and low you’d think he was smiling instead. It makes the burns on his cheek hurt slightly, a mark left there from the fighting earlier.

“My father used to sing that song,” Mark tells him later, deciding that he’d keep himself awake by indulging in the boy’s curiosity. Besides, talking about Avernost and what their people used to be… it makes Mark feel something. It makes him feel like he has something. So, he continues, “He was one among the Eldred-ruin, the great council of chieftains that once ruled over all of united Eldareth. Each winter, they would hold a prestigious meeting at Eldareth’s most precious stronghold—Avernost.”

Mark looks at Jisung, knowing that he’ll find childlike wonder sparkling in the young man’s eyes. He smiles, continuing, “My father, being one of the chieftains, would have to journey from our city to Avernost every winter, taking with him our best khazadteks and our most prominent shamans.”

“That word, it means knight?”

“Khazadtek?” Mark asks, and Jisung nods, eager to know the answer. He shakes his head. “No, a knight is simply a man of nobility in armor. A khazadtek is a warrior who earned their place among chieftains through our people’s trials. There is no direct translation into the common tongue. Anyway, each meeting of chieftains lasts one moon, and by the time it’s over the winter would have set in fully. It’s on the journey back to our city that my father used to sing this song.”

“Did it mean something to him?”

“More than you’d think.” Mark sights a distant cavity in the earth, somewhere ahead of them. A dark river courses through, marking the halfway point from the mountains behind them to the border of Eldareth. He looks at Jisung, “Every winter, the blackbirds of the mountains migrate south to escape the cold winter. There are some of them that do not survive the journey, either too old, too young or too weak. The song uses the birds as a metaphor for the men and women who don’t survive the journey back from Avernost. The Eldareth Winter is, afterall, the most cruel force on this earth. Father sang the song in their honor.”

Mark sings the final lines, “For shame, for shame, that you will never return to the halls of old Avernost.”

He doesn’t mention that the other reason he loves to sing this song is that somewhere on the other side of the Eldari border is a golden-eyed boy with a talent for song, whose voice Mark knows better than any sound, whose warm hands he craves every time a cold breeze blows by, and whose heart had been pledged to him as his had been when their families arranged their marriage all those years ago. But Jisung must know by now, he must—after all they’ve known each other since they were cubs, and they’ve braved far too many winters for their understanding of each other to be anything but deep and profound.

Jisung grunts. “Still don’t like it. Your story is cool though.”

“It’s always the stories you like, Jisung.”

“I like hearing about Avernost,” he says with a smile. “Will you take me there, rianón?”

Rianón. It’s one of the High Eldari words Jisung has learned and can properly pronounce. It means something like big brother, except “brother” would be synonymous to “protector” in this case.

“If you survive the journey,” Mark says with a sly smile of his own.

Jisung’s indignant protests are drowned out by the blowing of a deep horn from further ahead of their marching line. Mark can make out the shadowy figure of their Ragnar holding up the horn, a blazing torch in his other hand. He looks back at his army of warriors and rears his steed.

It means one thing: quicken your pace.

The ruined kingdom’s armies must be in pursuit now. Mark snaps the reins of his stallion, and he cherishes the warm wind that gushes through his hair. It is perhaps the last time he’ll feel it. He rides forth to cover the distance they’d slacked off on as he told his story, and Jisung is right by him, his horse galloping with frustrated huffs as the young man’s boots dig further into his side.

If the armies of Inaris are chasing, well, there’s not much need for concern. They’ll meet the eternal Winter at the border, and the frost will make short work of their warriors in gold.

☽☽☽

The host stops at midday to rest and regroup, intending to continue the journey come nightfall. The mountains are but dots on the horizon by then, and all there is to see are sprawling grasslands in every direction except North, where the grey peaks of the Mithril Mountains await them.

The Eldari have assembled a makeshift camp, tents coming up at the hands of efficient warriors.

“Seven days,” Changmin huffs, and when he takes off the steel mask covering the bottom half of his face, Mark draws a sharp breath. There are fresh scars on his skin, left there by the Inari king and his storm magics. The lightning must have been excruciating. The Ragnar repeats, “Seven days until we reach Edainor.”

He has called a meeting of higher ranked warriors in his command tent, and now they surround a large table as the Ragnar spreads a map over its rough surface.

He goes on, “We will take the most direct path to the border, which is through the Mithril Mountains. There, we will be met by some of the ruinë. They will make sure the host survives the Winter as we journey towards home.”

Mark’s attention is caught by the word ruinë. The fire-mages who are all but worshipped by Eldari folk for being servants of the Deathless Flames, and among whom is his own betrothed.

“Then,” Changmin continues, “We will do as the Eldari normally do. We brave the Winter, taking the shortest path. Our last stop to rest will be on the fifth day, at the Hallowed Halls. Then onward, homeward.”

“The Hallowed Halls?” Mark finds himself asking. “But the mountain city has been deserted for ages. It’s been reclaimed by the Winter.”

“We have the Twilight Blossom,” is Changmin’s only response.

Later that day, just before sunset, Mark summons a blackbird to deliver a message. He attaches a strand of Donghyuck’s hair to the bird’s talon so that it’ll know the way.

The pack will reach the border soon. Will you be there to meet us? Mín ruin ed m’aras.

Three sentences. There’s only space on the tiny parchment for three sentences. The third one, Mark decides as his favorite, is written in High Eldari, the tongue spoken in Avernost and the Great Cities of the Far North. It means your flame is my heart, a sweet phrase he would whisper against Donghyuck’s lips anytime he gets.

“Sending a letter to wifey now, are we?” The grating, jesting voice is one Mark knows well, and he casts a dismayed glance in the approaching man’s direction. “Wifey, hubby, all the same, hm?”

“Fine afternoon, Yukhei.” Mark begins walking away.

“Although I don’t suppose the Lee clans would know how to distinguish,” Yukhei adds, smiling widely. Mark stops and turns to face him. For a man of his stock, he seems awfully clumsy, his greatsword dangling precariously from his hip. “Your kin has been doing dirty stuff from the beginning.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mark feigns ignorance, he never was one to fan flames anyway.

Yukhei shrugs, and still that wide smile stays. His eyes are predatory. “Nothing. Just that you lot have made wives out of men. It’s unheard of.”

“Each clan has their own beliefs,” Mark takes a deep breath. No, he was never one to fan the flames, but when it comes to this? “I do not question your clan’s tendency towards incest, do I? At least I didn’t marry my first cousin like your father did.”

He’d even start the blaze.

“Men marrying men—”

“And I’d remind you, Wong Yukhei,” Mark interrupts, speaking firmly, “That those who have never walked the halls of Avernost do not have license to speak so crudely to someone who has.”

It’s the truth. In Eldari tradition, those who have been to Avernost are treated with reverence and respect. Those who are descended from the chieftains and have walked those halls are royalty in the eyes of Eldari common folk. Mark might as well be a prince, and Yukhei? He’s just the child of some chieftain’s vassal.

Yukhei bows his head, beating his fist twice on his chest out of Eldari courtesy.

“Your highness, have a fine afternoon,” he spits sarcastically, before walking away.

Mark looks to the sky, the blackbird a mere dot among the clouds now.

Seven days to Edainor.

“Make ready,” he tells Jisung later, when the pack starts moving again. “The journey will be gruelling.”

Jisung is young, and for someone who never had to journey to and from the border at the height of the Eldari Winter, Mark worries.

Jisung tries to displace his worries anyway, telling him, “I was born with survival in my blood, rianón. Are you forgetting? I’m a Blackbird.”

The true-born Blackbird among the two of them is Jisung, whose father is the Ragnar’s deceased brother. Mark was never a Blackbird by blood, he belonged to another clan, one that bore his own family’s name and their traditions—but that was a long time ago. Now Mark lives as a child adopted by the Ragnar of the Blackbirds, and this is how he survives. This is how he serves Eldareth.

Later that night, a raven perches itself on his shoulder, a small parchment attached to its talons. A little eager, Mark unfurls it and sends the bird on its way.

Vânyel. My love, Mark’s brain translates for him. I’m waiting for you here at the border. There is unrest among the ruinë, the Winter is much crueler this year. Be safe.

Mark looks up at the distant grey mountains, a little impatient for their arrival. When nightfall comes, the pack continues on homeward bound.

☽☽☽

The halls of Avernost are wide and cavernous, and its greatest hall, the Hall of Ancestors, is held up by the might of towering, leafless trees, their thick branches extending upwards until they all come together to form a formidable roof to protect against the biting cold. The tree trunks, exceptionally wide in girth, are covered with Eldari carvings of heroes, chieftains, and the sacred animals of all the clans in Eldareth.

Mark stares at each of the colorful carvings, his five year-old mind all too fascinated with the image of a white lion stalking a mountaintop.

“Hel-tari, come here.”

He looks towards his father, smiling at the nickname. It means little lion. His tiny feet take him forward to the Ragnar and the Eldari men he’s speaking to. It’s hard to move in the thick winter clothing he’d been bundled in, but he obeys nonetheless.

“For my journey back to Eseltar, I will have to lose one of my lion cubs,” his father tells him, kneeling down and yet still towering over him. The corners of his eyes crease with a warm smile. “The Winter is far too dangerous this year. I must leave you here and come back for you next time.”

Mark doesn’t know how to respond.

His father continues, “Don’t be afraid, for you will have good company. The Lee child is here, your betrothed.”

“Donghyuck?”

“Yes, and he too will be staying until next Winter.” His father shifts, gesturing towards one of the men he was talking to. “I want you to meet Changmin, Ragnar of the Blackbirds. He has agreed to keep watch over you through the seasons.”

“Dur-azad, young one,” Good day. Changmin smiles at him, “I find myself stuck in Avernost as well. Would you mind if we keep each other company while the others are away?”

Mark shakes his head.

“Good boy,” his father ruffles his hair, and Mark’s eyes close as he presses their foreheads together. Large gloved hands come up to cup the sides of his face, and Mark’s tiny ones make a feeble attempt to do the same to his father. To the Eldari, this gesture professes the most profound love and devotion between two people.

“You take care, my son. You will learn great things here in Avernost, enough for you to survive all the coming Winters.” When his father begins to pull away, Mark throws his arms around his neck. He sighs as his father wraps him in a warm embrace. His father laughs softly, “I’ll miss you dearly as well, dín hel-tari. My Minhyung.”

Later, Mark watches from one of Avernost's battlements as the great Lion Clan of the Northeast begins its journey back to their beloved city, Eseltar. The Ragnar of the Lions looks back at him, already beyond the gates and obscured by fog and falling snow, waving in farewell. Mark jumps up and down, waving back.

Steadily, a song comes streaming from the icy wasteland beyond Avernost’s walls.

For shame, for shame, that you will never return to the halls of old Avernost.

That was the last time he saw his father.

☽☽☽

“Rianón,” Jisung’s voice returns him to reality, as it so often does, and for a moment Mark mourns the lost warmth of his childhood memories. He looks back at Jisung, whose steed is having trouble navigating the rocky path running through the Mithril Mountains.

“What is it?”

“Sing that song I like.”

Mark raises a brow at him, turning his eyes back to the path. “You, liking a song? I’d never believe it.”

“I do like some of the stuff you sing, believe it or not. It’s that one about the Kyorin.”

That song is one of Mark’s favorites too, only because it sounds so sweet coming from Donghyuck’s lips.

“Blackbird of crimson crown, come down, come down,” Mark begins, looking back at Jisung to flash him a small smile. “Take your wings and take some coal, with your talons make art upon the stone. Blackbird of raven feathers, come down, come down… and together endure this ever-Winter.”

“See, this one isn’t so bad,” Jisung says as he sings, “It’s a little hopeful.”

“How cute of our little Blackbird to still have hope.”

“So cynical.” Mark doesn’t need to turn to see the way Jisung scrunches his nose. “Don’t you have hope?”

Mark hums contemplatively. “Hope for what?”

There’s a faint rustle of fabric as Jisung shrugs. “For anything.”

“Well, I hope I get to Edainor without my ears falling off.”

“What…” Jisung makes a curious sound. “Why would your ears fall off?”

“Because you talk so damn much,” Mark laughs. Even Jisung’s horse seems to agree, the stallion puffing out a pleasant neigh. “Don’t stop though, ardhuil. You’re pleasant company, despite popular belief.”

“What’s that mean?”

It takes Mark a moment to realize he’d spoken a word in High Eldari. It comes so naturally sometimes that it’s easy to forget only a small portion of their people actually speak their language, and even smaller speak High Eldari after the far northern cities fell. Most of them were raised on the common tongue.

Ardhuil, dear one. Except there’s more meaning to it than that. This is a word unique to the Eldari of lost Eseltar, often used by older brothers to refer to their younger siblings, often in cases where the older brother would have assumed the role of a parent. It came from the word Ardhuillinur—to care for and protect.

“It means dumbass,” Mark tells him instead, snapping the reins of his steed. “You wait here, I need to have a word with the Ragnar.”

His horse gallops up the path until he’s at the head of the marching host, catching up to Changmin.

“Ragnar,” he greets out of courtesy, easing his steed into matching the Ragnar’s pace. “Are we expecting danger from Ithil Elahad?”

The northern fortress of the sun-people is close by, housing the bulk of their armies. If they were to clash, the Eldari would be slaughtered in a heartbeat.

Changmin shakes his head. “They think we’re passing near Caras Anarion to the northeastern border. By the time they find out we passed through the Mithril Mountains, we’d be well on the way to Edainor.”

“And your injuries? Will you hold out until we reach the border?”

Mark doesn’t miss Changmin’s labored breathing and his uptight posture, as if one slight movement would put him in pain.

“I will be alright, Hel-tari.” There’s something more he wants to say, so Mark stays, expectant. “I ask that you keep watch over the Twilight Blossom. I can feel his magic stirring… He will be awake soon. When he awakens, there will be hell.”

The Ragnar’s words unsettle him, but all he does is nod and obey. That’s all Mark needs to do, anyway.

“Come with me!” Mark calls as he rides past Jisung, and soon there are two sets of clopping hooves in his ears.

“What’s going on?” the young man asks when he catches up to Mark, who positions himself ahead of the carriage carrying the Blossom.

“We’re keeping guard,” Mark nods towards the carriage. “Changmin said he’s trouble.”

“Is he awake?” Jisung looks back at it, trying to peer through the slits on the black exterior. The rider behind the reins regards them silently, only there to carry out his duty and nothing else.

It’s a few moments later that two more Eldari come towards the carriage, and it’s no other than Yukhei and his buddy, Mingi.

“Your highness,” Yukhei greets with a mocking smile. “We’re on guard duty together, it seems.”

“Unfortunately.”

Mingi flashes both of them a gummy smile before drifting towards the rear of the carriage with Yukhei.

Mark releases a deep breath. It’s going to be a long night. It feels like an eternity has passed by the time they reach the border at midnight, and snow falls in sparse flakes. The true Winter will soon come. In the distance, an ember fire glows through the fog.

Onward, homeward.

☽☽☽

“Who burned you like this?” Donghyuck’s golden eyes scan over his bare body, running over each scar etched upon the pale skin. Warm fingers tickle the edges of the long gash running up Mark’s arm. “Such vicious wounds you have, my love.”

The white-robed ruinë, being held in such high esteem, always get their own tents within the Eldari camps. Donghyuck has one all to himself, owing to his status as the leader of the fire-mages. This is how they can be with each other like this, away from the scornful gazes of the other clans.

“Inaris had a fire-wielder like you.” He sits on the edge of a chair, Donghyuck kneeling before him. Mark traces the bone of Donghyuck’s cheek with a bare finger. Golden eyes flash up to meet his for a brief moment, before returning to where gentle hands dressed the wound on his arm. “His flame was much like yours. He could not properly wield it in battle.”

“I could wield my fire in battle just fine,” Donghyuck says. His hands are swift, and now they’re pressed flush against the bandages over the nasty wound, his palm glowing with a healing flame. “I just choose not to.”

Beyond this tent and its thick fabric coverings, there is the noise of an Eldari commune coming alive. Mages are healing, warriors are resting and feasting, for this pack has returned to the eternal homeland. This is their soil they tread upon. The pack has spent all of today and yesterday travelling, and despite crossing the border last midnight, the Ragnar ordered the pack to keep going.

Now, they are far enough from the border that the only real danger to be faced is the Winter. So, they set up camp for tonight, and the journey homeward continues at sunrise.

Even from within the tent, the cold manages to reach him. The hair on his skin stands, his breath coming out in clouds of fog.

Donghyuck wraps him in a thick fur-coat once he finishes with the wound. “The gash runs deep. I have done what I can to close it, but it will take a long time for the skin to fully heal.”

Mark’s eyes flutter close as warm hands settle against his cheeks, humming contentedly at the warmth that heals the tiny scars on his face. He gently tears Donghyuck’s hands away from him, instead pressing kisses to the skin on top of them.

“Reserve your magic for the rest of the Eldari,” he whispers. “They need your healing more than I.”

“No one deserves my fire the way you do.”

Mark’s eyes wander down to Donghyuck’s pretty neck, specifically the necklace hanging from it. It’s made with the ivory teeth of the mountain lions in old Eseltar, hanging from a rope of horsehair and adorned with the sparkling rubies so common in the caves around their old city.

It’s a necklace fashioned by Mark himself, each material he had scavenged dutifully for as part of the marital rites he undertook to have Donghyuck’s hand in marriage. The Eldari never gave each other rings, instead they made beautiful necklaces that were earned through Hunt and Craft.

He remembers journeying through the eternal Winter once he came of age. Eighteen, homeward.

Home was Eseltar, a lost place that had fallen to the Winter when its Deathless Flame withered and left its people to die. He returned to a great mountain city buried in snow, skeletons scattered over the roads.

Then he climbed the mountain from which Eseltar itself was hewn, Mount Eltari. The Great Lion’s Peak. There, he slayed a family of white lions, and from their teeth, he made the necklace. This is the tradition of their people.

He came home to Donghyuck in Avernost, and in return received a necklace forged from lasgalen, the precious white metal that grew in the dragon-caves of the Northeast, where Donghyuck’s own city once stood. How lucky is he to have married a fire-mage of lost Angonar, to have a dragon-slayer by his side for a lifetime.

Now, Mark comes home to him again. There is no warmer feeling than this, he thinks.

“You are quiet,” Donghyuck stands, tugging Mark up with him. “What’s wrong, istari?”

Mark raises an eyebrow at the foreign word. It must be an endearment, with how sweet it sounds from Donghyuck’s lips. Perhaps an Angonari word?

“It means…” Mark’s hands come up instinctively to hold Donghyuck’s waist as the mage hooks his arms around his neck. He spends a moment in quiet thought. “It means beloved, I think? I’m not too sure, I only discovered the word in a lost wordtome. The author said it’s something that Angonari chieftains would lovingly call someone only if the chieftain has killed a dragon for that person.”

Mark smiles against Donghyuck’s lips as they share a kiss. “You never fail to remind me of the fact.”

“That I’ve killed a dragon for you?” Donghyuck murmurs back.

Mark hums, drowning in his golden eyes. “You’re unstoppable.”

Donghyuck kisses him again. “For you, I am.”

“I’m worried,” Mark tells him, only remembering Donghyuck’s question after a moment of pause. “Jisung is sick. He’s trying to hide it, so I don’t know how bad it is.”

“Must be the travelling,” Donghyuck pulls away at the sound of nearing footsteps. Better to be safe than sorry. He ventures over to the fire, placing a pot of water over it. “Bring him here, I’ll see what I can do. We can’t have him sick for the rest of the journey, otherwise…”

Donghyuck doesn’t bother completing his sentence out loud, instead grinding down a red powder in a mortar.

“That’s why I’m worried,” Mark says grimly. He starts dressing back up for the cold. “I’ll go and get him.”

It’s a while later that Mark finally finds Jisung, the young man entangled in a little celebration at Hongjoong’s tent, and through gritted teeth Mark drags him out, wrestling a mug of mulled wine out of his hold.

“Sit down,” Mark tells him when they reach Donghyuck,, gently pushing him towards the chair at the center of the setup. He rubs his hands together, glad to be in shelter from the cold once more. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Jisung.”

The young man doesn’t even bother denying it. “I swear it’s not that bad! I’m fine—”

“Hello, Jisung.”

He falls silent at Donghyuck’s voice, murmuring, “Hi.”

“Let me see you.”

Mark watches as Donghyuck steps closer to him, gently tipping Jisung’s chin up with his right hand. It’s almost comical how Jisung still finds it hard to hold the mage’s gaze, his eyes darting anywhere around the room. Anywhere except Donghyuck. His cheeks are flushed, whether from the cold or something else, Mark can make a guess.

“How long?” Donghyuck asks, pressing the back of his hand against Jisung’s forehead.

“It’s been, like, three days.”

“Right before we crossed the border, then,” Mark says.

“It’s not that bad,” Donghyuck says, carding a hand through Jisung’s hair. The young man lets him. “But still concerning. The Winter is more cruel this year. The paths have been frosted over, if not buried. The winds, too, are much stronger. Even the ruinë struggled when we journeyed from Edainor to the border. You will have to make yourself strong before we continue, Jisung.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jisung insists. “It’s just a cold. I’m not used to the Inari climate.”

Mark hums, unconvinced. “Is there anything you can give him, Hyuck?”

“Just an elixir for now. I’ll make some more for the journey, just in case. It’ll keep you warm enough so that the cold would be unnoticeable.” Donghyuck hands Jisung a vial of red liquid. “Drink up, eredin.”

“I’m not so little anymore for you to call me that,” Jisung grumbles, although it lacks bite. Little one, Donghyuck called him.

“As long as you need me to make elixirs for you, I will call you as such, eredin.”

Mark claps Jisung on the back when he downs the vial.

“Now come with me, we’re getting some food.” As he waits for Jisung to get himself in order, he presses a kiss to Donghyuck’s temple. “I’ll bring you some on my way back.”

“Thank you, Hyuckie,” Jisung calls on their way out, and Donghyuck simply waves them off with a warm smile.

“Is it hard?” Jisung asks later as they wander through the maze of paths cutting around the tents. The smoky scent of roasted mutton is growing closer.

“What is?” Mark asks in return.

“Having to hide.”

He spares Jisung a glance, the only indicator that the question caught him off guard. He releases a breath, “Of course it is.”

“I wish you didn’t have to.”

Mark slings an arm around his shoulders, although it’s a bit awkward because Jisung is a little taller than him. Jisung doesn’t push him away like he usually does, though, so Mark indulges.

“This is the way the world works, ardhuil. As long as I have him, I’ll be fine.”

“Will you ever tell me what that word actually means?” the young man whines.

“Who knows?” Mark smiles at him, the hand slung over his shoulder tugging idly at the lobe of Jisung’s ear. “Maybe you’ll just have to find out. Maybe when you can pronounce it properly.”

Jisung tries and fails, to Mark’s delight. His tongue just wasn’t built to pronounce all the prominent consonants and delicate vowels of High Eldari.

“Keep trying,” Mark says, dragging him into the tent where the food is being cooked. “Maybe one day you’ll get it.”

He calls towards the cook, releasing Jisung and pushing him towards an empty table. “Mutton for three, Cook! Make it meaty, it’s Jisung eating.”

The cook only laughs heartily and starts cooking mutton over the fire.

☽☽☽

Later at night, when both he and Donghyuck lay sleeplessly in the latter’s bed, they feel a tremor of magic that makes them both sit up wide-eyed.

“What was that?” Donghyuck mumbles, and another wave comes, washing over them like the warmth of a distant blaze.

“The Twilight Blossom,” Mark realizes, leaping out of bed.

He only manages to grab his fur coat, shoving his arms through the sleeves as he sprints out of the tent, Donghyuck right behind him. Changmin had ordered the carriage carrying the Blossom to be placed near the ruinë tents, so it only takes Mark a second to spot it as he runs out into the barren cold.

The carriage is more of a cage on wheels, really, a metal box of dimeritium—a precious metal meant to suppress magics. It rattles now, shaking unstably upon the snowy ground, shaking off the snow that had settled upon it.

Eldari guards surround the carriage in various stances of defence, unsure of what to do.

Mark’s sword lies at his side, carefully approaching the carriage.

“He’s trying to get out,” he says, mostly to himself, seeing the way the bolts on the shackled doors are shaking under the force of each tremor.

Donghyuck hears him anyway. “He’s going to.”

Banging emerges from within the carriage, loud enough that half the camp has woken up and gravitated towards the source of all the noise.

The Ragnar joins them a moment later, the crowd of warriors parting before him. He’s donning his armor.

Changmin narrows his eyes at the carriage, calling out, “Stand down!”

It takes them all a moment to realize it was meant for the Eldari and not the man inside the carriage. Confused, they lower their swords.

Mark steps closer to him, whispering lowly, “What are we going to do, Ragnar?”

Changmin looks at him. “Nothing.”

Then there’s one final, thunderous bang, and the sound of chains shattering. The shackles fall from the carriage door, and the sound of the metal falling into the snow below is followed by an unnerving silence. Not even the blowing winter wind could be heard now.

Mark looks around and up at the sky.

“The snow stopped falling,” Jisung says, appearing beside Mark. One of his hands come up to touch an unmoving snowflake frozen in the air.

Then the carriage door creaks open, and they all hold their breaths.

From within the shadow of the carriage, red, glowing eyes stare ahead at the throng of warriors in the snow. Then a black boot steps out, followed by another, until a pale young man fully emerges from the shadow and into the flickering torchlight. Clad in fine black fabric, the Twilight Blossom looks every bit a spirit of the dark.

Then his mouth falls open, and Mark drops his sword as his hands fly up to cover his ears. A cacophony of noise overwhelms the air, so discordant that a dull throbbing makes itself known in the back of Mark’s head.

It was like the clashing of metal and the chorus of blackbirds crying out, like gargantuan ocean waves tormenting the shore as mountains fracture and fall. With a crash like thunder, Mark’s vision goes black, and suddenly he’s in his mind, looking ahead at a pair of crimson, glowing eyes.

A sinister face comes into view, sharp and faintly handsome, pale white skin tainted by the stream of black tears falling profusely from his eyes. There is a crown of thorns on his head, digging so harshly into his skin that blood draws.

Mark can’t move, can’t even look away, and suddenly the crimson-eyed man surges forward and pulls him in with brutal hands. Lips crash roughly against his own, a sweet taste blooming in his mouth despite his desire to scream and run.

At that point, Mark returns to reality with a ringing in his ears. He’s on his knees, staring at the blurry ground. His hands are buried in the snow, aching. He sits back on his knees, looking around.

Donghyuck drags a hand across his mouth, eyes wide and pupils blown. Jisung lies unconscious in the snow, and Mark scrambles over toward him.

Faintly, he’s aware of how the Twilight Blossom collapses in the snow, how the warriors recover from the disorientation and chaos starts erupting—then there’s Changmin’s voice rising above the rest, ordering everyone to return to their tents.

Mark carries Jisung to Donghyuck’s tent, the sweet taste in his mouth leaving a bitter feeling in his chest.

“What the hell was that?” Donghyuck breathes, already concocting a new elixir with adept hands. He looks over his shoulder at Mark, who sets Jisung down on an empty bed. “Did you also see it?”

“The pale man? With a crown of thorns?”

Donghyuck nods. “Freakish. Is this what Changmin meant when he said there was a spirit in that Inari lord?”

Mark is still reeling from the loud noise, and he first finds a chair to fall back on before replying. “Ragnar said the boy has the spirit of fire and shadow. Has Ancient blood in his veins.”

“Ancient blood has only ever been real in folk tales.”

“Until now.”

“Until now,” Donghyuck repeats. He ventures over to Jisung, not bothering to put the elixir in a vial. He nurses the bowl to his lips, placing a gentle hand on the back of his head. “He’s exhausted, Mark. This is bad.”

Mark doesn’t say anything. Silently, he hopes Jisung will be better by morning.

“Ancient blood is powerful,” Donghyuck muses after a moment of silence. He places the empty bowl on a nearby surface with a clatter. He stares at Mark. “Even just a drop of it can revive a Deathless Flame, so they say. Is that what Changmin is after?”

“He wants to restore Eldareth to greatness,” Mark tells him, and for some reason he finds himself unable to look at his husband. Instead, he watches Jisung’s sleeping form, a furrow on the young man’s brow. “He’s going to restore the Lost Cities, and he’ll unite our people under one banner as we used to be.”

“And what? Will the skeletons in our lost kingdoms rise from the dead and jump up and down in glee?”

“Donghyuck.”

The mage reaches out to take his hand, kneeling in front of him. When did he get so close?

“I also dream of a reunited Eldareth, istari. I yearn for peace among our people the way you do.” He breathes out, his shoulders sagging. “I suppose it’s just unusual, even for a mage like me, to have those dreams rest upon the shoulders of a sorcerer from the South.”

Mark’s fingers find themselves tangled in Donghyuck’s raven hair. “When we reignite the flame of Avernost, I want you there with me.”

“I’ll be there.” Donghyuck stands and presses a kiss to his forehead. Mark’s hands fall to his side. “Of course I will be.”

Under the watch of a snow-obscured moon, the third day begins. Onward, homeward.

☽☽☽

The Eldari host braves the blizzard the only way they know how: through grit and fire. The ruinë are scattered along the long line of marching warriors, their amber-tipped staffs held up against the falling snow. The gemstones glow like brilliant torches, and so long as their light falls upon the host, they will survive until Edainor.

Just like always, the line is lead by the Ragnar, and the carriage stays nestled in the middle between long formations of warriors.

Mark can’t help but glance at Jisung every other moment, the young man riding on the other side of the black carriage that carries the Blossom. Donghyuck is further ahead at the very helm with the Ragnar, right where he’s supposed to be.

There’s another mage riding ahead of the carriage, a silver-haired boy named Sunwoo.

“You’re nursing a cold, Lord Blackbird,” the mage calls through the howling wind, golden eyes glancing over at him. “Keep this.”

Mark watches as the mage tosses Jisung an amulet of ember.

“What is it?” he asks, clasping it tight in his palm.

“Healing stone. It’ll help a little bit.” The mage waves his staff in the air, his staff growing dim before the warm light rekindles anew. He looks back at Jisung. “Wear it around your neck to keep your heart warm.”

Jisung obeys wordlessly, calling out a thank you a moment later. Sunwoo waves a hand in dismissive welcome.

Mark stares ahead into the white nothing. The falling snow, the harrowing wind, the everlasting fog—it all creates a blanket of white that obscures their vision. Mark can barely see past the tenth warrior in front of him, and beyond that the flurry is impenetrable. Only the guiding light of the fire-mages cuts through, lighting their way onward, homeward.

☽☽☽

“You know, I’ve always thought it was funny, tari,” calls a rough voice from behind Mark. Yukhei. “How you talk like you’re better than the rest of us.”

The snowfall has only gotten stronger, and Mark has watched Sunwoo reignite his guiding flame at least ten times since they continued their journey. Mark looks back at Yukhei, brows furrowed. Beside him, the black carriage creaks along the darkening path. Nightfall would be upon them soon.

“Bored, Yukhei?”

“You know it. Where’d you learn to speak the way you do, huh?”

“Prob’ly Avernost!” rings a voice, and though Mark can’t see him he knows it was Mingi.

“He never fails to rub it in our faces, does he?”

Mark exhales evenly through gritted teeth. “Keep your stinking breaths to yourselves. Might keep you warm.”

It’s not long before a white-maned horse canters up beside his own, and Yukhei smiles at him from under his thick fur clothing. “Say, is that what they taught you in Avernost? To talk like high and mighty nobles, always yapping on and on in High Eldari.”

The wind howls, and Mark keeps his mouth shut, determined not to encourage Yukhei by responding. Still, the brute continues, “Well, even if the rest of us only speak the common tongue, we at least have our morals.”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“Keep an eye out for your teras-kas, Lord Lion,” and Mark feels anger flare up within him. “There are many men here at the pack, eager to keep themselves warm.”

Something about the word Yukhei used strikes a nerve with him. Teras-kas, plaything. Donghyuck is far from it.

“Touch him and I’ll kill you.”

Yukhei chuckles, raising a placating hand. “Just a friend offering advice of caution.”

Mark scoffs. “You’re no friend.”

Satisfied, Yukhei lets himself drift back to the end of the carriage.

At once, Mark looks over at Jisung, whose back is slightly hunched as he stares forward at the path.

“Sung,” he calls. The young man looks at him, eyes slightly shot with blood. It’s a bad sign. Mark digs into his pocket, retrieving one of the elixirs Donghyuck had promised to make in case this happened. He tosses it to Jisung, who catches it with both hands. “You alright, ardhuil?”

“Fine,” Jisung says back.

Mark isn’t convinced. His heart beats fast out of fear, and he does the only thing he knows will grant him some sort of comfort. He closes his eyes and evens his breathing. Mark’s magic extends far enough for him to be able to reach out to Donghyuck with his mind.

Vânyel.

He knows Donghyuck has heard when a pulse of awareness returns to him. How long until we reach the Hallowed Halls?

The response comes after a second. Soon after sundown. A pause. Jisung?

Mark can tell from the clipped replies that Donghyuck is exhausted. Subconsciously, his teeth dig into the skin of his lips, worried.

He’s getting worse.

He’ll have to hold out until we stop to rest, Donghyuck says.

Mark knows. For both his and Jisung’s sakes, he starts singing. The melody is unsteady because his voice shakes from the cold, but he decides that as long as he gets the notes out, it’s alright. The frost creeping around his heart thaws a little bit when he hears Jisung’s deep voice through the screeching wind, humming along with little strength.

Blackbird of raven feathers, come down, come down... and together endure this ever-Winter.

It feels as if an entire moon has passed by the time the jagged rocks of the Hallowed Halls make themselves known through the everlasting blizzard. Sundown was sometime ago, and now the fire-mages’ guiding torches burn brighter than ever, casting amber light upon the towering peak that houses the Hallowed Halls.

Somewhere from the far distance comes the howling of wolves.

Mark is wide-awake now, his exhaustion overtaken by the desire to indulge in safe refuge, and he almost greedily takes in the sight of the rock fortress as it takes shape before him. Its entrance is heralded by four massive pillars of grey stone that rise from the ground, holding up the bed of snow-covered earth above it.

Beyond the pillars lie the large metal gate bearing the likeness of a wolf’s face. Through its shadowy, metal mouth the Eldari stream in, drifting like shadows beneath frosted fangs.

Mark breathes it all in, for this is lost Iskanar, the stronghold of the once mighty Eldari wolflords. Once, these Hallowed Halls served as a refuge from the cruel Winter, all until its Deathless Flame was extinguished all those moons ago. Once, its entrance pillars would have been surrounded by fierce brasieres of red flame, guiding home lost packs of Eldari in need of shelter from the cold. Once, their people used this place and its throngs of halls in the mountain to rejuvenate before continuing onward, homeward. How lucky they are to be able to wander its halls now, for this city in its day was nearly as glorious as Avernost, and its people were the strongest warriors of their land.

Now, as they venture into its depths, there is only a cavernous silence that makes every noise echo back at them, and it is deeper beyond the gate that the first skeletons litter the grey ground.

A steady melody comes from the helm. It is Changmin singing, and Mark recognizes it as a song of the Iskanari. This is Eldari tradition, to sing another clan’s songs to commemorate their honor and memory. A lilting song, a mourning one.

On ever-wintry nights the Path is cruel.
Come in from the cold, come seek refuge.
Be at peace when you hear the grey wolves,
for you have come upon the Hallowed Halls
and no kin shall be left out in the frost.
Let them guide you to Iskanar.
Then continue onward, homeward.

The Blackbirds make home in Iskanar for tonight, reigniting its flames and returning light to the mountain kingdom of eldritch glory. As the Eldari settle in, a wintry wind echoes through each chamber and each corridor. It’s as if the Grey Mountain is sighing in content, for its people have found it again, and they walk once more through its Hallowed Halls.

Mark is kept from Jisung by pure duty, the young man having been placed in the ruinë’s care once settled. As the Ragnar’s most trusted, it fell upon Mark to ensure that the host settles in properly, that each warrior is accounted for and that warm food and fresh supplies reach every last head.

Then deeper in the night, once camp has been set-up in the outermost halls, the Ragnar takes him and a handful of others deeper into the stronghold in search of its frosted heart—its Deathless Flame, to reignite it.

The deed called for the Twilight Blossom, and so they take the young man with them through the wolflords’ halls, their way forward lit by Donghyuck.

“It is close by,” Donghyuck says, the Ragnar close behind him. His voice echoes through the corridor they walk through.

Mark looks behind him, at the crimson-eyed Twilight Blossom in shackles. He’s ragdolled forward by Yukhei and Mingi, the pair too delighted to be rough with someone who doesn’t resist. The Blossom is awake now, but different from last time. He doesn’t appear sinister or threatening at all. He simply looks like an Inari lord bound in chains.

He blinks at Mark, meeting his gaze but not saying a word. When he stumbles over himself, Yukhei gives him a particularly harsh push forward.

“He’s not used to the Winter, Yukhei. Be gentle,” Mark reminds, despite knowing that his words will have no effect.

“Of course you look out for the faithless mountain sprite,” Yukhei bites back. “Of course you’d be inclined towards the pretty, fragile Blossom.”

“My name is Jaemin.” He speaks through gritted teeth, eyes cast downward. He tries to shake off the men’s grip on him. “I can walk by myself.”

Yukhei’s grip only tightens, if the strained clanging of chains is any indication. “Has a name, has he? Forgive me for not letting you go. You’re a hazard, Jaemin.”

“We’re here,” Donghyuck’s voice rings from ahead of them.

There’s a steady hum then a flash of amber light. The sound of cracking ice is short and abrupt, followed by the creaking of a door.

Dull blue light comes from the open door, and the group files out, emerging into a massive hall that takes Mark’s breath away.

The hall is indescribably large, with a domed ceiling where the grey stone is layered with daggers of ice. It is the ice from which the soft, blue light comes—remnants of the Deathless Flame trapped within the frost. There are brasiers placed around the circular room, surrounding the gigantic tree at its center.

The wood, a pale gold, runs with blue veins, its thick branches leafless and barren. It creaks as they move closer, the sound of magic awakening in the presence of a ruinë.

Its roots are thicker than horses, taller too, burying itself in the barren ground and running deep. Those roots are spread through the mountain, and once, it allowed warmth and life to reach every last rock, every last hall. Once, both men and wolves shared in the Deathless Flame and all that it had to give.

There is a hole carved into the trunk of the tree, an empty, hollow space where the Flame once burned.

Changmin is the first to approach the tree, stepping upon its roots. He looks back at the rest of them, ordering, “Bring the Blossom here.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Jaemin asks at once, apprehensive. He manages to resist being pulled towards the tree until Yukhei makes him pliable with a knee to the stomach.

Mark watches with a bitter taste in his mouth as they drag the reeling Blossom towards the tree.

Donghyuck meets his eyes from beside Changmin, retrieving a curved dagger from within his sleeve. He looks at Jaemin, asking him, “Do you know what you are, Blossom?”

Jaemin doesn’t answer him, instead staring up at the fire-mage with furrowed brows and fearful eyes.

“You are the future of our people,” Donghyuck continues. “Through your veins runs the very thing capable of restoring the lost cities of Eldareth. Your blood will bring back our kingdom from ruins.”

Jaemin looks conflicted. “Why me?”

“There is something within you.” It is Changmin who speaks this time. “I sense the division in your mind and heart, Blossom. You share your body with an Ancient soul.”

“The shadow…” he realizes, a mere whisper.

“Consent or not, your blood will restore Iskanar on this night.” Changmin nods at Yukhei and Mingi, and the two men start hauling Jaemin up to the hollow opening in the tree.

Once there, Donghyuck grabs Jaemin’s wrist, pulling the limb until it’s stretched, the skin taut for cutting.

Mark doesn’t say a word as Donghyuck digs his dagger into the palm of Jaemin’s hand, the blood streaming from the wound and dripping down onto the pale golden wood of the tree.

Jaemin’s hiss of pain gets lost in the ensuing shriek that comes as a result of the flame bursting from the hollow. Red hot fire festers within the tree like a newborn sun, and the pale blue veins running through the bark and branches suddenly turn a vibrant crimson.

The ice thaws at once, dissipating into fog, and a deep groan runs through the mountain as the Deathless Flame comes once more to life.

Mark shields his eyes with his hand, gazing at the bright flame through his fingers. It’s warm and blinding, something he never thought he’d live to see—the rebirth of a lost city.

Distracted, they forget about their shackled Blossom.

Mark hears the clanging of metal, and he looks over to see Jaemin breaking free from his shackles, tearing them off from molten chains. Magic, Mark’s mind supplies for him.

By the time Mark unsheathes his sword, Jaemin has knocked Mingi out cold. He swiftly retrieves the unconscious Mingi’s greatsword before pouncing at Yukhei with lethal aggression.

It’s all happening too quickly—Jaemin is a beast in combat, cutting a nasty gash across Yukhei’s chest before his crimson eyes lock onto Mark.

Mark runs forward and Jaemin surges to meet him. At the last second he drops to a knee and slides across the ground, pointing the edge of his sword outward, intending to inflict a non-lethal wound on Jaemin just to incapacitate him, but the Blossom proves to be agile. He watches as Jaemin propels himself into the air, flipping gracefully over his blade and landing without fail on the ground.

When Mark recovers and turns, the blade of a greatsword comes hissing towards him before he can even fully stand. He parries the strike away, meeting Jaemin’s eyes for the briefest moment.

Mark recognizes a trained warrior when he sees it. He twirls his sword by the hilt and prepares to attack.

A flash of orange light serves as the only warning before a wave of flames spew forth towards Jaemin. His eyes widen for a moment, gripped by a split-second of panic, before he extends an open hand towards the flames.

The fire parts before Jaemin as if by command, scorching the ground around him and leaving him untouched.

Donghyuck glares at him from atop a tree root, a ball of fire bursting to life in his palm.

Together, Donghyuck’s voice calls to Mark, but before either of them could act, a tendril of shadow wraps itself around Jaemin’s body. The greatsword in his hands clatters against the ground as the tendril lifts him into the air.

Changmin takes steps towards Jaemin, eyes calculating. He wields his silver-tipped spear by his side, his free hand manipulating the shadow to wind tighter around the Blossom.

“You are an excellent warrior, Jaemin,” he says. The crimson-eyed young man only makes frustrated noises in response. “It would be a waste of your talents to fight us. We can sort this out peacefully, only if you agree to be amiable.”

Jaemin stops struggling, although the fire in his eyes hasn’t died down. Slowly, the tendril of shadow sets him on the ground, dissipating like the smoke of a flame.

Mark blinks and suddenly Jaemin is surging forward towards Changmin, his hands wreathed in bright flame. The Ragnar brings two fingers up to his lips and pushes the same hand outward. The motion summons a wave of shadow that passes through Jaemin with a hiss.

The Blossom sways in place before falling unconscious to the ground.

“You failed to mention he was a capable warrior,” Donghyuck mutters, before adding, out of respect, “Ragnar.”

“I was also unaware,” Changmin says bitterly.

Mark sheaths his sword, torn between running towards Donghyuck and reshackling Jaemin.

He decides on the latter. It’s best for everyone involved.

Alright? Dongyuck asks a moment later, tending reluctantly to the nasty gash on Yukhei’s chest. When Mark turns from securing the knot around Jaemin’s wrists, he finds Donghyuck already looking at him.

Mark nods. You?

Tired.

Donghyuck hasn’t had a chance to rest his magic and recover. The night ahead is long, with many men no doubt in need of healing.

“Have him bound again for when he wakes, then bring him to the Feasting Hall,” Changmin orders, sparing Jaemin a glance. He gazes upon the blazing tree, his eyes shining. “We will show our pack the savior of our kingdom. Let us return and bask in a renewed Iskanar.”

Hope. Mark recognizes it. Now, it comes to him in an odd form. An uncomfortable one. Despite it, a reunited, restored Eldareth is all he’s ever dreamed of, it’s all their people dream of.

A drop of blood restored Iskanar tonight.

Eseltar, Angonar, Avernost—restoring them is possible now. When once, it had been ‘never’, now, it is only a matter of when.

One person’s blood is all it takes to restore their land, then perhaps Mark will spill it gladly. One person’s blood isn’t much too high of a price, is it not?

He finds that he’s not entirely too sure.

☽☽☽

Later on, as they return to the pack, Changmin announces the need for a gathering in the mountain city’s largest hall. There, among grand pillars of grey stone, the Eldari come together beneath the bright torchlight, beneath the watch of the metal wolves left there by their kin.

“Tonight we settle in the halls of Iskanar.” The Ragnar’s voice projects deep and full from where he stands upon the altar at the head of the room. Behind him, Mark and Donghyuck, a shackled Jaemin between them. “Tonight, my brethren, we are witnesses to something once thought impossible. When the Dark Winter fell upon our people all those ages ago, we lost our most precious cities. One by one, they went, and one by one our homes were reclaimed by the frost.”

A solemn air settles over the room as Changmin continues, “Frozen by ice or left to drift aimlessly through the winter—that became our fate. Hesterald, Iskanar, Rivenord, Eseltar, Angonar,” voices flare up from the gathered crowd, until there is a resounding cry for their lost haven, “Avernost! All of them we have lost, but now we have hope.”

Changmin steps back, extending his hand out toward Jaemin. “The Twilight Blossom gives us hope for a restored Eldareth!”

There is a triumphant cry from the sea of Eldari before them. Mark casts a brief glance at Jaemin, who seems conflicted and unreadable beyond that. Crimson eyes meet his, and Mark tears his gaze away.

Vânyel?

Something odd blooms in Mark’s gut as Donghyuck’s voice comes gently into his mind. Yes?

What’s on your mind?

Mark takes a breath before replying. Later.

He feels Donghyuck’s lingering gaze on him for a second, until Changmin’s voice calls to them and forces them both to resume paying attention.

The Ragnar faces Jaemin before lowering himself onto a knee, and by Eldari custom all the warriors in the hall follow suit. Surprised, Mark and Donghyuck do so as well. For a moment, it’s as if the earth beneath them groans beneath the weight of the Ragnar’s power, and as he bows his head the whole of the mountain-hold lowers itself with him.

Cold wind blows through the hall as Jaemin stares uncertainly at the Eldari before him.

“Hail the Blossom!” Changmin says, and those three words echo back at Jaemin with the ferocity of an eternal Winter wind.

☽☽☽

Sunwoo’s warm brown eyes greet Mark and Donghyuck as they enter the sprawling physicians’ hall of Iskanar, the room long and wide yet empty enough that all the space is consumed by shadow.

Torches hang from metal arms on the wall, a temporary lightsource until the mages figure out how to light the metal chandeliers hanging overhead.

“Edhelnur,” brightest flame, it is Donghyuck’s title as leader of the ruinë. “He is not well.”

Sunwoo refers to Jisung, who lies ailing on the nearest bed. There is another fire-mage working away at a candle-lit table, vials of mysterious liquid littering the surface. He looks up at the pair’s arrival, gentle chestnut eyes glistening in the candlelight. He smiles pleasantly and bows his head in respect.

“Chenle’s going through the stores to see if there’s anything we can use to treat him,” Sunwoo continues, himself going through a tall cabinet filled with flasks. “A lot of these are frozen or expired, though. It’s been what, a hundred years since Iskanar was lost?”

“A hundred and thirty three,” Mark supplies, drifting naturally towards Jisung, who he finds is awake. Mark reaches for his clammy hand, taking it within his grasp. “Ardhuil, how do you feel?”

“Like shit,” Jisung rasps.

“He’s been clinging to that amulet like a lifeline.” Sunwoo glances at the amber amulet still around Jisung’s neck, its light dulled now. The fire-mage waves a handful of empty vials for them to see. Mark squints at the familiar vials. “The poor boy’s been drinking himself silly on these elixirs. He’s sick and blitzed.” Taking a flask of frozen dark grey liquid to a nearby table, he asks Donghyuck, “Ground Hera powder, Edhelnur? Though I swear there was something else,” he sniffs the vials before discarding them in a nearby holder.

“Abelladon,” Donghyuck tells him, venturing towards Sunwoo to take the flask of grey liquid from his hands.

“That explains why he’s severely blitzed.”

Mark casts a questioning look towards Donghyuck, who only shrugs, “Being high makes it easier for Eldari to regulate body temperature. Common knowledge.”

“I’m seeing wolves on the ceiling,” Jisung whispers, and Mark follows his vision. The open mouthed face of a wolf stares back at him.

“There are wolves on the ceiling. We’re in Iskanar, Sung. Wolves everywhere.” Jisung blinks, mouthing a silent oh. Mark huffs a laugh. “Can you sit up?”

Jisung tries, and Mark helps him with a steady hand on his back. Mark’s hand strays upward until it rests at the back of Jisung’s neck, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the warm stretch of skin behind his ear.

Mark drops a bag of food on Jisung’s lap. “Eat up.”

Jisung’s eyes light up at the sight of the roasted mutton, still warm. He takes small bites, drinking water in between.

“It’s Baleflower extract,” rings Donghyuck’s voice from behind them, evenly pouring the grey liquid into separate vials. “In the south, they use this flower to treat illnesses. I wonder where this came from… It seems the frost preserved it too.”

“I found Artemisia,” Chenle speaks up, handing Donghyuck a jar of preserved green leaves. Jisung’s eyes follow his movements with ill-concealed interest.

“Physician’s cure-all,” Donghyuck gasps, wonder seeping into his voice. “They only grew in Hesterald. These leaves must be hundreds of years old!”

Donghyuck passes the jar to Sunwoo, who starts grinding the leaves in a mortar. Once finished, he pours the ground leaves into the vial in Donghyuck’s hands.

“Will it cure him?” Mark asks.

“It will ease the sickness,” Sunwoo answers. He stares at the vial as Donghyuck brings it close to his lips, whispering an incantation. The liquid turns from grey to white. Sunwoo looks at Mark. “Although curing it is not a certainty. Lord Blackbird’s case is… difficult.”

“How?”

“Chenle says it’s more than the ordinary cold,” Sunwoo tells him. “Tell them, Le.”

“I’ve read in books that the old Angonari mages thought the Winter was alive,” Chenle says, leaning against a table. Now that Mark takes a better look at him, he seems a little too small for the sprawling white robes of the ruinë. Jisung blinks at the fire-mage, wide-eyed. “They believed there was magic in the blizzard. Anyone who falls sick because of the Winter cannot heal themselves in simple ways.”

Mark looks worriedly at Jisung, who quietly lets Donghyuck tip the vial of white liquid into his mouth. He makes a sour face at the taste, and the fire-mage laughs fondly at him.

“I have the materials to heal him back in Edainor,” Donghyuck says. “We just need to get there. He’ll survive, won’t he? Our tough eredin.”

“Course I will,” Jisung lies back down on the bed, breathing out heavily. “I’m a Blackbird.”

“And Blackbirds always survive the gruelling frost,” Donghyuck says, imitating the way Changmin had said it so many times in the past. Mark meets the fire–mage’s eyes, not missing the way his movements are slowing.

Rest, he calls out.

Donghyuck’s hand brushes his as he passes by. Soon.

“The men have settled,” Mark says, “There are no wounded left to be healed. We’re in Iskanar now, warm with a Deathless Flame. The fire-mages ought to get some rest.”

“So gracious of you, Lord Lion,” Sunwoo smiles, and it’s warm and pleasing. Mark would be drawn to him if he didn’t already have a sun of his own, pulling him in with constant gravity. “A warm bed doesn’t sound too bad at this time of night, does it, Chenle?”

Chenle simply hums, pushing himself off the table. He too smiles, sweeter as it falls upon Jisung, to whom he softly says, “Be well.”

The two fire-mages leave the room, bringing some of the warmth with them, and as their footsteps fade away, Mark flicks Jisung on the forehead.

The young man’s hand comes flying up to press against the reddening skin, hissing out a profanity.

“You’re smitten for that fire-mage,” Mark accuses, a smile on his lips.

Donghyuck joins in on the teasing, “I honestly don’t blame you, eredin. Chenle is a downright charmer. One of the ruinë’s brightest, too.”

“Please let me get some rest,” he grumbles, throwing an arm over the flush on his cheeks.

“We will, we will.” Mark cards his fingers through Jisung’s hair, watching as the other boy relaxes at the calming motion. Genuinely, he says, “Please get better.”

“I’m trying my best.”

“I’ll keep him company,” Donghyuck offers, his own way of telling Mark to find a bed somewhere in the upper halls and get some shut-eye. “I’m bound to be stuck here anyway.”

“We will keep him company,” Mark corrects, eyes scanning over all the empty beds. “There’s enough space in this room for all three of us.”

Mark knows Donghyuck has reached the peak of his exhaustion when he simply nods, no longer possessing the energy to protest. This is the Donghyuck that he sees so rarely, for the fire-mage is a sun burning ever-bright, and rare are the nights when the dark triumphs over his light.

On the occasions that it does, though, Mark is sure to be there for him—just as he is now.

Donghyuck melts into Mark’s touch, who wraps him in his arms from behind. Mark hooks his chin on Donghyuck’s shoulder, sighing contentedly.

Mark’s eyes follow the movement of golden hands moving over the table, moving flasks into their place and putting vials in their holders. When the surface is at last cleared, warm hands settle against Mark’s own.

A moment passes before the fire-mage starts humming a sweet song, an old love song by an Angonari bard. Mark’s heart beats along to the rhythm, for the Angonari were not just wielders of fire and masters of dragons, but also famed musicians whose songs reached into the soul as if by magic.

Mark knows the words, so he sings them along to Donghyuck’s tune.

Let the snow fall, my love, on this wintry night
Let the wind howl and torment the walls outside
Here, with me, you are safe and alright,
for my heart burns for you, warm and bright.

Mark looks over to Jisung, at the steady rise and fall of his chest. He knows the young man is asleep, giving him license to press a tender kiss to the golden skin between Donghyuck’s neck and his shoulder.

There is no one watching them, no one to gaze scornfully upon them, and so rare are these moments that Mark cherishes it.

Donghyuck turns in his arms, so completely pliable in his hold, and it’s almost as if he unravels against Mark, leaning his weight forward against him until his head is nestled in the crook of Mark’s neck, his arms wound gently around his waist.

Mark presses a kiss to the tuft of hair tickling his nose. “Vânyel,” he whispers, not because he has something else to say, but just because it’s what Donghyuck is to him—his husband, his love.

The hall falls silent, filled only with Jisung’s soft snores and their own, steady breathing.

Mark could stay like this forever, and his eyes close on their own, far too comfortable in this position.

“We should lie down,” Donghyuck mumbles into his skin, his hands running up and down Mark’s sides. Even through the fabric of his tunic, Mark can feel the warmth of his fingers.

After a moment, they lie side by side on two beds they’ve pressed together, staring up at the wolves carved into the ceiling. They fall asleep like that, their hands clasped between them, at ease knowing that when they wake, they’ll still have each other.

They’ll have each other for the rest of this gruelling journey, and all the journeys beyond. Mark dreams of treading the icy path once more, this time to Avernost, and looking over his shoulder to find golden eyes and a bright flame.

☽☽☽

At sunrise, the pitch-black Winter returns to being an impenetrable white. The Eldari are up by the early morning at the Ragnar’s behest, for they have a purpose to fulfill before continuing on with their journey.

The harsh Winter has been punishing, and the Eldari have had their fair share of loss. There were some of them unfortunate enough to not survive the journey. Too young, too old, or too weak.

The Eldari gather at the gate of Iskanar, the howling wind rising above all other sounds. There wasn’t much noise, anyway, for the Eldari honor the dead in silence.

Pyres made of pale wood have been constructed before Iskanar’s great pillars of grey stone. There must be around thirty, each carrying one body lost to the frost.

They take steps towards the pyres, leaving footprints in the snow that’ll be gone before long. Mark takes his place just behind the Ragnar, Donghyuck right beside him. Jisung is standing, still afflicted with the remnants of a sickness, on Mark’s other side.

The young Lord Blackbird stares at the pyres, a furrow to his brow. How close had he come to being on one of those pyres? The sixth day is upon them, and the seventh come midnight—two more days of travel to weather this unforgiving Winter.

Mark places a steadying hand on Jisung’s shoulder, who simply looks at him and breathes a shaky exhale.

The song starts not long after.

The fire-mages step out from within the ranks of Eldari, approaching the pyres. Donghyuck leaves Mark’s side to venture further out into the snow, trinketed hand reaching out to one of the pyres.

With a hiss of magic, the wood bursts into flames, brilliant and warm. Fires come to life before them, casting a defiant amber light into that never-ending blankness waiting for them.

O fallen ones, fly ever on
to the silver-peaks of the North
For shame, for shame
that you will never return
to the halls of old Avernost.

No matter the cruel Winter, they continue onward, homeward.