Chapter Text
The frosts of the north had swept across the land earlier this year, freezing lakes solid before the leaves had fully fallen from the trees. It had become common this year to see trees whose limbs had snapped off from the weight of the snow—trapped by the unfallen leaves—throughout the landscape. Between the heavy snowfall and long lasting storms it was a winter that very few would forget. Certainly, it was the coldest winter in recent memory. But the nipping cold couldn't stop human activity. There was need of warmth, of food, of furs and firewood. Winter is desperate, full of life, and rogue.
Today is silent, with no clouds to obscure the dim-lit sun and the feeble winds that blew from the west did nothing more than rattle the skeleton-fingered branches of the trees. However, there were words here—ancient secrets tucked between the wingbeats of buntings and the rhythmic dripping of icicles—about the forest and the tall mountains looming like giants on the horizons. These were the whispers of the world that one could only hear if they listened close enough.
As one such person could.
Wrapped up in heavy furs, he ventures upland, hiking for an hour before stopping, sighing, and closing his eyes to listen. Left, and then right at the fallen tree. Find the owl nestled in the hollow of a young pine and walk in the direction that its beak is pointed. Twenty paces until you’re at the water’s edge. Count your footsteps carefully and listen close. Seven forward, seven in the direction of the sun, and then three towards where the moon will hang tonight.
And he obeys, letting the old ghosts and spirits of the world guide him.
What now? he thinks.
Here. Fish here. Good luck, young Halvard.
And they disconnect from him, ending the conversation.
There’s no reason to say thank you with them no longer listening to his thoughts. And besides, they were old friends. He makes a note to sacrifice something in their names anyway to show his thanks.
Halvard digs through the freshly fallen snow of the previous evening to get to the frozen lake underneath. The ice here is dirty, with sunset-colored leaves embedded into the layers of ice that Halvard tries to break through as best he can, chiseling the outline of the hole he wishes to create with his axe. There’s limited sunlight left and he needs to make the most of it.
“And why do you think you’re gonna have any luck there?”
Oh boy, here we go.
“I thought I smelled something gross,” Halvard groans. “Don’t you have better things to do instead of following me around?”
Henrik, as rosy-cheeked as ever in the cold air, smiles wide. “Nah, I fished up like, twenty fish, more than enough for the day. I don’t understand what brought you all the way out here, but you’re better off fishin’ with everyone else down by that big lake.”
Halvard, ignoring him, continues to smash the butt of his axe against the ice. No luck, so he scours deeper lines, hoping that they’ll be good enough, and rams it even harder.
“Halle, for what it’s worth, we don’t know if there’s any fish down there.”
“If everyone keeps fishing out of the same lake all winter, then there’s going to be no more fish,” he mutters, a little out of breath as he starts stomping his foot to break through. “Plus, I know there’s fish down here. Just trust me.”
“Do you want some help?”
“No,” he pants. “I’m good.”
Henrik watches him struggle for a few more minutes before gently pushing Halvard aside and using his own axe, ramming and breaking through the ice perfectly in one forceful push.
Henrik grins at him, beaming and proud.
“You’re just lucky,” Halvard grumbles, setting up his fishing gear. “But, thanks.”
“You can thank me with the first fish you catch, pal.”
Halvard’s fishing spot ended up being more than plentiful, with fish practically jumping out of the holes in the ice, and by the next week half the village was fishing there.
“You know what, I shouldn’t have doubted you,” Henrik confesses over lunch. “You always seem to have this sixth sense when it comes to finding things.”
“There’s something else that you want to say besides that though, right?”
“Right again! Jeez, you are so good at this!”
“That’s just called reading people. You’re so expressive. It isn’t very hard.”
“Reading people, intuition, a magical ability, whatever,” he waves his hand in the air dismissively, “I just want to let you know during the first signs of spring, I think I’m going home.”
“Oh.” A shock. “... Why so?”
“I’ve been away from my land for a few years, and y’know, I’m probably missed. Just like these people would miss you if you left. And I mean, don’t get it wrong, I love the mountains, the fjords, being around you, all of it. But it isn’t home for me.”
“But you’ll come back to visit again, right?”
“Duh,” and Henrik elbows him in the side. “You’re my friend. I just wanted to let you know sooner, rather than bring it up when the snow starts to melt.”
Halvard sighs, staring into the fire with a sour look. “Well,” he rubs his palms together slowly, in thought, “if you’re going back in spring… we should probably… not work tomorrow?”
“In other words, you’re asking to hang out?”
“Correct.”
Henrik bounds to his feet and pulls Halvard up with him into a hug, bouncing up and down excitedly.
“Henrik, your hands are covered in fish grease.”
“Listen! We’re going to have the best time ever! Tomorrow! It’s going to be perfect!”
Halvard should’ve listened to the sinking feeling in his stomach.
Henrik shook off the shackles of sleep before the sun rose, rolling over and whispering loudly into Halvard's ear while pushing him awake.
“It’s cold,” Halvard groans.
“Come on, if we get up now we can be halfway across the valley before sunrise! I made you breakfast!”
“Is it fish.”
“Of course it’s fish, silly! Get up! Rise and shine! It’s going to be a wonderful day!”
It takes Halvard longer than Henrik expects to get ready so they only make it a quarter of the way across the valley before light creeps from behind the mountains.
The farther they journey away from civilization the more they begin to talk, mostly about inconsequential things, like the texture of the bark of the trees they pass by, birds eating frozen berries on thorny bushes, comparing their weapons and the differences in their stature. They laugh more as they start to climb up a mountain, flinging jokes and puns back and forth before they begin to fling snowballs. Henrik nails Halvard straight in the face. Halvard shakes himself off and runs at Henrik, plowing him into the ground and shoving a fistful of snow down his coat. They scream at each other which decays into laughter and then heavy breathing.
The sky is clear, an empty ocean for the sun alone.
It’s so peaceful, and Halvard reaches across the snow, inching closer and closer to hold Henrik’s hand.
You need to leave.
His body flinches as a voice rushes through him like a bolt of lightning.
You need to go back home, you’re in danger, hurry, you have to run!
“What is that…?” Henrik wonders aloud, turning to his left. He spies something red close by, not the color of blood, but the color of the autumn-kissed leaves trapped in Halvard’s lake, the color of rust, the color of Henrik’s coppery hair.
“A fox? A fox!”
And Halvard watches Henrik shift onto his feet slowly, excited but quiet. The animal freezes solid, as does Henrik, staring into each other’s eyes in wonder.
Halvard if you want to live, you have to go now!
“Henrik, I—”
But Henrik is gone, sprinting after the fox, bounding over a fallen log and out of sight in an instant.
“HENRIK!” Halvard shrieks, scrambling to his feet after him in pursuit.
You’re going to die! You’re going to die if you chase them, turn around and go home! chant the spirits. Halvard is following the fox’s and Henrik’s tracks like a bloodhound, calculated and focused, trying to shove out the buzzing within his skull as best he can. Can I ask for clarification, what is going on? he requests, but he’s only met with frantic ramblings. The spirits give up trying to reach him, dropping out of his head one by one. And then the tracks suddenly end. He can’t find them.
And then there’s silence.
Why do you want me to flee? he asks. Nothing. He asks again. Nothing. He notices a torn piece of clothing hanging off a piece of rock, and he looks down to see the tracks leading over the mountain. In the distance, the sky is black.
A storm, it was a storm they were warning him about.
Halvard, a old tree spirit pipes up, the only one remaining, calmly giving him directions as he stands there. I won’t tell you what to do. I can’t tell you what it right. I can’t tell you that turning around now is going to guarantee your safety just as I can’t tell you that moving forward will bring about your death. You’re in danger regardless of what you do. But either way, you need to make a choice, and I will support you the best I can.
He nods, taking the ripped cloth and climbing down to follow the tracks, wherever they lead him.
Henrik’s entire being had been so focused on chasing after the fox that he didn’t notice the dark skies above until fluffy flakes started to fall around him. He had managed to corner the animal in a hollow log, curled back with teeth bared defensively, and after such a pursuit he felt giving up was hardly appropriate. Also, he had no idea where he was, and the task of simply turning around and following his footsteps was going to be difficult with the wind starting to pick up. But getting the fox out was proving to be difficult, he couldn’t stick his axe down far enough to slay the beast and he only got scratched up by frantic paws when he tried to stick his hand down.
He starts to chop away at the log, shortening its length, and that’s where everything goes wrong.
Cornered, threatened, and scared, Henrik should’ve seen it coming, but he doesn't, and the fox rockets out—fur shimmering in the fading light like a burning torch—and bites him in the leg before taking off. Henrik throws his axe at it—hoping to make contact—but he only grazes it, hitting it with the handle but not the blade—enough to make the animal limp but not enough to prevent it from running. He loses his axe during this process, clattering down between cracks in the mountain. So it comes to this: the fox, stranded on a cliff-side, staring as Henrik comes closer. The snow torrenting down, nearly blinding, whipping away and draining both of them of warmth.
“It’s just you and me!” Henrik shouts over the blizzard, the fox snarling back. “So, what’s it going to be?”
With a bloodied fist, Henrik attempts to grab the animal, missing as the fox sidesteps and they trade places.
The smart thing to do is to flee, but neither back down.
The fox lunges, jumping at his throat and Henrik tries to grab it again. But the fox is much stronger than it looks, and Henrik is knocked backwards, just a little, but it’s just enough for the rock and snow to give way underneath them. With his arms around the fox, there’s nothing he can do to regain his balance.
And then he falls.
And the world starts to spin.
And then it stops.
And Henrik sees red.
And then there’s nothing.
He dreams of the warm summers he’s missed back home, of trees draped in brilliant foxfur instead of leaves, of bonfires billowing out so much smoke that they turn into thunderstorms. He dreams of being cold despite the warmth around him, of water being poured over his head that is so scalding that it burns him. He dreams of the fox and he chases it again across the same deserted winter wasteland, but this time life blossoms from both of their steps, the snow hissing and melting under their feet as plants twist up from out of the dirt and transform the land behind them into paradise. The fox escapes. Henrik wanders. The burn on his forehead hurts.
He feels there’s something he’s supposed to remember but all he can think about is the fox.
The sky opens up and it begins to pour sticky blood, filling his mouth with the taste of metal. Henrik tries to find water to get rid of the taste, but all the rivers and ponds are just as red as the rain pouring down.
And from across a lake, he sees the fox again, soaked with blood the same as him. It stares at him, and then patters off into the woods.
The world seems to shift, warping and disintegrating. Henrik turns around.
The fox is there, in front of him.
Bloody and dripping with fire.
It lunges for his throat and knocks him over.
All he sees is red again.
But it stays red, a murky, rotten red.
The pain on his scalp feels worse than ever, but he feels warmer, at least mostly. He tries to open his eyes but they feel crusted over and swollen. His whole body feels heavy. He’s unsure whether or not he can move. It takes four tries before he manages to open his eyes.
He’s met with the brown eyes of the fox.
He panics, trying to do his best to yell and fight back, but his voice cracks and his limbs won’t obey him. Like magic, the eyes back away from him, transforming, and he sees that they aren’t brown, but blue.
It’s Halvard, who looks quite worried but also very cross.
“Rest,” Halvard orders.
The world swims and the next thing Henrik remembers, he's staring up at the bright blue sky.
“Welcome back to the world of the living,” are the words that Halvard greets him with. Henrik doesn't see him, only hearing his voice and the sound of shuffling snow. He asks questions and receives answers
Where am I? On our way back home. I'm dragging you on a makeshift sled. How long was I out? I've lost track of time, I don't know. My head hurts. That's a common symptom of idiots who decide to chase foxes and jump off cliffs and bash their heads into rocks. That's right, the fox, what happened to it? I have your damn fox, don't you worry.
“It's for you.”
Halvard stops pulling the sled and pauses.
“What?”
“Yeah, I tried to get it for you, that's why I chased it to begin with.”
Footprints, coming closer, and Halvard peers into Henrik's line of sight like a dark shadow, judging.
“You what.”
“It was going to be a gift, for letting me stay with you, and something you can hold onto when I'm gone.”
“So you risked your life and mine for a fox pelt? To somehow make me happy? That’s the most moronic thing I've ever heard in my life.”
“Well, when you put it like that it doesn't sound very romantic.”
“You're really lucky that I'm such a good friend,” Halvard marches away to start dragging the sled again. “That I didn't even think twice about risking my own life for yours. If I hadn't, you'd be dead."
“I know I'm lucky to have you, and thank you. You deserve like, a hundred foxes.”
“Enough of the damn fox shit."
“But really. Thank you.”
“What are friends for?” Halvard sighs, and even though Henrik can't see him, he can tell that he's smiling.
They are both quiet the rest of the way home.
The foxfur goes up in flames, as Halvard throws it into the nightly fire, something that Henrik doesn't understand and when he asks he only manages to pry from Halvard a string of jumbled words about owning the gods a thousand favors for what he did. A sacrifice, for escaping death by the skin of their teeth. Watching the flames overtake the already flame-colored fur makes him think about the dreams he had, of the final images of the fox, bloody and burning and mouth crackling with sparks, an ethereal danger, something that could never be real. The barren winter to the living spring, such dreams are where fairytales come from. After hitting his head so badly, he shouldn't be surprised to have had images of the otherworldly.
He laughs and cracks a joke about these things, but Halvard only half laughs, like he's disinterested, much more interested in the amorphous, transforming fire in front of him than he is of Henrik's terrible jokes.
And perhaps Henrik is lying to himself because he realizes that things don't add up. He thought he had torn his clothes—in fact, he's nearly certain that he did—but on the sleeve that he remembers being ripped there's no sign that there was ever any damage. And if Halvard said he had fallen from where he said he did, how was it that he hadn't broken any bones, how come he just had a small gash on his forehead? The sled Halvard claimed to be makeshift had symbols and runes carved into it and was clearly ornamental—something he wouldn't have been able to do up in the mountains. And the foxfur, Halvard told him that he had cleaned it from the body while waiting for the blizzard to pass, but Halvard didn't have the right tools on him to accomplish that task so cleanly. And if Henrik was being honest with himself, looking into Halvard's eyes reflecting the light of the fire, there was something not quite human about him that he had never noticed before.
But friends have their secrets and each has their own way of being that nobody can ever hope to fully understand. It wasn't Henrik's place to pry and these unanswered questions didn't keep him up at night. He would forget these doubts and simply accept Halvard the way he was. His fingers wander and he interlocks them with Halvard's.
"I'll miss you, you know," Halvard tells him, squeezing his hand. "When you go, I mean. I'll worry about you."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
He leaves Halvard in the springtime empty handed— with no prized furs or treasures—but Halvard cups his cheeks before he parts and tell him that memories are all that really matter, anyway.
In Denmark, where he spends the next summer, he dreams of Halvard—draped in red foxfur—blue-eyed and smiling.