Work Text:
The pristine snow crunches beneath your mare's hooves.
There's a slow drift of flakes swirling through the air; you think of the fluttering whirl of petticoats at a ball. The wind whistles, nips at you with cold teeth. You nestle deeper into the soft warmth of the heavy furs—from the thick-pelted beasts of the eternally snowy lands, gifted to you by the redheaded knight with the sweet, puckish smile and half-dead eyes—your ladies had draped you in.
Behind you, the hounds have started to bay, darting off, spry despite their heavily muscled forms. Only your alaunt stays, trotting beside you, waiting for your command.
There's a flare of crimson at the edge of your vision. In the snow, Lord Ragnvindr's hair is brighter still, like the glow of a crackling bonfire. He draws level with you, taking his usual space at your side, his handsome face practically carved from stone.
The other lords spur their mounts on. As he gallops past, Lord Alberich flashes you a brazen smile that makes your own lips tilt; your companion grimaces.
"My lady," Lord Ragnvindr says, watching the other lords disappear into the brush. He's brusque, your title clipped into something sharp.
"Lord Ragnvindr," you say lightly. "As pleasant as your company is, you needn't hover."
"Reconsider your attendance at the hunt and I won't need to accompany you."
You sigh and set your mare into a steady trot. "I suppose we'll be spending the afternoon together, then, my lord."
He huffs. It rumbles through his broad chest like rockfall, but he doesn't bother to argue. The king is soft on you, his favored ward, and thus his lords are too. Even the defiant, influential Lord Ragnvindr.
You ignore him, clicking your tongue to send Ursa into the hunt. She arrows off. You nudge your mare to pick up speed, keeping a hand on your bow.
Lord Ragnvindr keeps up with you effortlessly, as he always has. His high ponytail flows in the wind, the ends of it fluttering like guttering flames. He stays close but silent, his brow thunderous every time you dodge carelessly around the massive, slumbering oaks of the king's forest.
The snow is falling thicker now, settling crystalline into his hair and yours. The other lords appear and disappear—you see Lord Alberich's ocean-blue hair between a gap in the trees, rippling like the tide—as the hunt intensifies, the hounds baying as they pick up a scent.
Later, you won't recollect how you fell behind the other lords. You think it was a gradual separation, just as the storm built slowly.
Lord Ragnvindr recognizes it first, coming abreast of you as you slow in a small forest clearing, one big hand closing over your reins. He slings a thick arm around your waist to steady you as you yelp.
"Forgive me," he says, letting go as soon as you're stable. You wonder if it is the cold that pinkens his cheeks. "But we need to shelter from the storm. It's worsening."
"The others—"
"Are far ahead. And they are not my concern."
You glance around the meadow, blinking against the snowflakes caught in your eyelashes. The snow has swallowed the trees; they are the faintest outlines, hazed over like river ice. The wind howls. It sends the snow whipping, blurring the world even more.
"Shit," you say.
Lord Ragnvindr ignores your vulgarity to tie your reins to his saddle. It draws your mare close, until your leg is almost pressed to his.
"There are cabins throughout the king's wood," you say. "I've been to some before with Ursa, on other hunts."
"Can your hound find the way?"
"Yes," you say. "She can."
You call out for her. Your voice fades in the storm, muffled by the thick blanket of falling snow. Still, she appears moments later, barreling through the swirling flakes. At your second command, her ears perk. She circles your mounts before guiding you forward.
It's a slow journey. The snow grows heavier still, until it coats your furs. Until you can feel the chill even through them. Lord Ragnvindr bundles you into the cabin as soon as you arrive, his touch gentle but insistent before he disappears back out in the snow to see to the horses. The ghost of his fingertips lingers on the small of your back.
You shed your soaked furs. They've kept you mostly dry, at least—a testament to the harsh winters of Snezhnaya and the skill of their furriers. Your skirts have not fared as well, the damp creeping up your hems until the cloth clings against your legs.
You have a fire going when Lord Ragnvindr returns. You ignore his raised brow, feeding the fire as he sheds his wet outerwear.
He clears his throat. "We'll need to spend the night," he says, his tone brooking no argument.
Your face heats. "My lord—"
"It will be—I will keep my distance. I know it is—not ideal, my lady. That there will be talk."
You bite your lip, your mind whirling. The Lady Lisa will be an asset, as will the Lady Jean, the beloved Acting Grandmaster. A few of the lords will be useful, too. You know which whispers will lead to which ears, and if you play it well enough—
"Talk is of little consequence when you know how to hush it," you say firmly.
You wish you believed it.
He studies you for a moment, his keen gaze picking you apart. He inclines his head to you. Long has the court been your domain; he knows this as well as your ladies do. Perhaps only Lord Alberich can match you when it comes to such a command of the court's flux.
(As such, where you and the playful lord stand alters almost daily. Lord Alberich—Kaeya, he insists, as if you’re still children tumbling through the halls, grass stains bright on your elbows and knees—often knows too much.)
The wind howls outside; it whistles through the cracks in the wood, scratches at the door with frostbitten fingers.
"You're shivering," Lord Ragnvindr says.
"My skirts," you say. "The furs couldn't protect them, I'm afraid. They'll dry soon."
He stills. "They're wet?"
"Unfortunately," you say, spreading your furs in front of the fire to try and dry them. The night will be a cold one without them.
He coughs.
"My lady—"
Lord Ragnvindr's uncharacteristic hesitation garners your full attention. His expression gives away nothing, but there's pink blooming on the apples of his cheeks. You tilt your head.
"My lady, if your skirts are wet, you'll need—you'll need to remove them," he says roughly, glancing away. "They won't dry fast enough to keep you from catching a chill."
"Oh."
"I'll go to the stables again," he says. "Just until—until you're covered once more."
You think he says more, but you can't hear him over the echoing drumbeat of your own heart as it pulses in your ears.
"Diluc," you say softly, unthinkingly. You lace your hands together in front of you. It's been years now, but his name still tastes familiar. Maybe it's the red of his cheeks that's coaxed it from you, you think. The blush melts the stone of him. It reminds you of the boy you grew up with, before he drew away.
He stiffens at the sound of his given name on your tongue, his ruby eyes darting to you sharply. "My lady?" he asks woodenly.
You take a deep breath.
"I can't get my skirts undone by myself."