Archive of Our Own ^beta

Scully, for whatever reason, likes to hover in the windows and look out at the whitewashed landscape, the bare rock face, the ice and sleet . Niall thinks she must be dreaming of better things. Of mud, and warm hearths, and scraps in alleyways. Whatever things rats love and would miss, should they be taken away from them. He tried to find a way to leave her behind, when he went. But they were too clever to allow that, of course, and in some ways he’s grateful for that – for someone to talk to, besides his four stone walls.

He tucks her against his throat before the last sunset, heads out to the rocks where the wind can’t always catch them. He perfected his warming potion long ago, and it keeps him well-thawed right through to his core, but he still wears his winter coats out of habit. They smell and feel like his previous life, like the bustling marketplaces of Svearike and the sharpness of cedar in the castle dining hall. When he pulls up his hood, the fur swallows the edges of his face. He watches the sun intently. Bids it adieu. A scattering of snow swirls up from the ground; a thousand, glittering diamonds catching the cuffs of his sleeves and brushing past the tip of his nose. His toes and fingers begin to tingle as the energy around him changes, as the moon claims the land and the air and the sky as its own. By the time he stands again, there isn’t so much as a trace of gold on the horizon.

He cuts a chunk of snow from one of the sweeping drifts before he goes back inside, fills his bucket to the brim. The stars shine with painful clarity overhead, and out there on the ice, he can almost hear them singing. He knows how they’d sound, anyway, in that deep part of his soul – the part that still remembers the histories of the atoms that make him. It brings almost-tears to his eyes. He trudges back along the ridge, giving the sky one last, lingering glance before pushing open the door to his small stone hut and stepping inside.

Real warmth greets him; warmth he can feel on his face. He sets his bucket down and lets the door fall shut behind him. He laughs when Scully pokes her nose out from beneath his chin, reaching to lift her from the confines of his hood. She’s not a large rat, nor fat. Her fur is pure white, her eyes coal black, and her nose always sniffing. She humors him, for a moment, nosing at his fingers, and then wiggles away and leaps to the floor. He smiles fondly, watching her climb the shelf. She keeps her nest there, among the few books he managed to take with him, stashes her nuts and seeds somewhere behind or between them. He has to be careful when he takes a volume out; once, he sent her careful pile scattering, and she refused to look at him for days.

He shrugs his coats off and picks up the bucket again, stepping to dump the snow into the cauldron hanging over the fire. It sizzles and steams, but eventually settles. All else is silent. He eats a small dinner of porridge, stirs up more warming potion. Crawls into bed and pulls his furs about him, leaving a small space for Scully to curl against his chest. Eventually, slumber finds him.

His dreams are fragments of summer. Outside, the long winter begins.

-x

Everything changes with the knock on the door.

It jolts him awake, and for a moment he thinks he dreamt it. But Scully stands rigid on his chest, velvety snout pointing in the direction of the sound. For one, chilling moment, fear strikes his heart. And then he reminds himself that the worst has already come and gone, that everything after is only happenstance. He whispers a word to the rat, and she scampers off, disappears behind the book shelf and through a small gap in the wall. He wills her warmth as she slips out into the night, his own surrounding dimming while he focuses in on hers. The wind’s picked up again, folding around the rocks. Buffeting ice dust across the stone. Scully reaches the doorstep as another knock comes. Whoever’s there is swathed in furs. Niall can suddenly hear them, a dry pant, laboured breaths. They’re not strong. They’re not malevolent. They are ill with exhaustion.

Niall makes a split-second decision and bolts up from his bed, hurrying to the door, mumbling under his breath to undo the protective charms that prevent anyone but him from entering. He trails his fingers over the solid wood, tapping here, there, and then he opens it and steps back as the form of a man collapses inside. Scully darts after him, the wind chasing on her tail, and Niall tucks his hands under the stranger’s arms and hauls him the rest of the way through, pushing the door closed before the wind can rifle through his books and taste the residues on his cauldrons and inspect what few ingredients he’s managed to salvage.

Breathing hard, he presses his back to the door and closes his eyes. Somewhere, the moon pulls at the masses of the ocean. He fills his chest with it.

“Chosaint na ceithre ballaí,” he breathes, and the protective charms return. He sprinkles Ague-weed around the room to extirpate anything else that might have come in with the man, and then he turns to the body itself, which is curled up and trembling. Scully sniffs at the figure as Niall crouches down, reaching for the hood of his coat. It’s made of something luxurious, soft and silken. He almost snatches his hands back when it shimmers under his touch, but the magic within it feels ancient and benign, and his fingers only twitch as he pulls it away to reveal the man beneath it.

His face is pale. His hair is dark and long, a tight braid woven into the side of his scalp above his ear while the rest splays free across Niall’s rug. His brows and lashes are dark against the white of his skin, and his lips are chapped, shaking over chattering teeth. His eyes, though open, are unfocused, irises pale green as if the cold has sucked the colour from them. His features are almost distinctly Paemani, Niall decides. He swallows hard. Past experience tells him to return the stranger to the ice, to the wind, to let the elements finish him off. But his heart reminds him that his purpose in this world is not to punish. The man shivers violently; it’s something Niall’s seen too many times before, in soldiers on the battle field. His hands work automatically, untying the furs and pushing them back, revealing beneath it the silk, black uniform of the banished. It sits loose against the stranger’s skin, his chest rising and falling erratically. His body shakes and shudders.

“Keep shivering,” Niall murmurs. He reaches for his hands, pulls them from their gloves, presses his palms against his fingers. Miraculously, they’re not frostbitten. Niall checks his ears, tugs his boots and socks off to find his toes icy but unblackened. A quiet incantation makes the fire burn hotter, and the stranger makes a sound in his throat, turning his face toward its glow.

Niall leaves him for a moment, to throw a handful of spearmint into the cauldron above the flames. He adds a sliver of willow tree bark and a flower of bear weed for good measure. He isn’t sure where this man has been, what evils he might have encountered. Whatever the illness is, this mixture will chase it out. Once the he’s satisfied with its hue, he leaves it to boil, pouring a cup of the warming potion for the stranger. He holds it to his lips, urging him to drink it down. The man struggles to swallow the first mouthful, but almost immediately his shivering subsides, and Niall can see the faintest pink in his cheeks. He breathes out a sigh of relief. There’ll be no death here tonight, then. No possibility of angry spirits to contend with. He lets the man drink the rest, and then pulls the empty cup away, setting it behind him.

“Thank you,” the man whispers, fixing Niall in a momentary gaze. Niall nods, struggles to think of a reply, but the stranger’s eyes have already fallen closed. He sinks into slumber and doesn’t wake for one full rise and fall of the moon

-x

While the man sleeps, Niall searches his furs and his bags for any sign of identification. He finds many things, empty packets that smell of herbs, one small cube of salted cheese, a dull knife, dried berries. A small satchel, heavy with the weight of various stones. There’s a leather-bound journal, but he doesn’t dare open it; most journals won’t let you read them without express permission from their owner, and often ward you off with nasty charms. All Niall knows of the man, so far, is that he was ill-prepared for a journey into the snow and is damn lucky to be alive. It isn’t until he begins to brush the spearmint potion over his skin, undoing the buttons of the uniform to reach his chest, that he finds the talisman around his throat. It’s a tarnished gold disc, with runes etched across its surface. In the center sits a glittering emerald. Niall can immediately feel the power emanating from it, and his eyes go wide. Across the room, Scully sits straight up. Fear trickles through him like cold water. A shiver crawls up his spine. The emerald blinks at him, vibrant green, glowing with inherent light. Fingers shaking, he quickly buttons the man’s shirt back up, covering the gem. He doesn’t know what it’s capable of. He doesn’t know what it can see. He only knows that the last time he came across that emerald, it nearly cost him his life.

He doesn’t dare touch the man again. He arranges his furs around him and then steps back, staring wide eyed at the rise and fall of his chest. His mind is racing with questions – how he came to be here, whether he was sent to find Niall, perhaps to kill him. But his sleep is sound. And there is still Ague-weed on Niall’s fingertips, a touch that would burn were the man’s intentions anything but pure. Yet, he wears the stone of Niall’s enemy; he wears the stone of the family responsible for Niall’s current isolation, for the loss of everything he knew. Niall watches the faint veins across his eyelids for a long time, considering. It’s odd, that they didn’t take the emerald when they sent him away. They certainly took Niall’s, the moon stone he kept on a simple silver chain around his neck. Maybe the man is cloaked in some powerful magic, meant to hide his cruel purposes. Maybe he’s a dissenter, clever enough to sneak the emerald along. But as many questions as there are, the man doesn’t stir, and eventually Niall must return to the work of living.

-x

Niall leaves Scully to watch over the stranger while he ventures back into the cold. The sun is nothing more than a faint memory on the horizon, the stars whispering overhead. He drives his axe into the thin film of ice covering his fishing hole, breaking it up until he can let down his line.  It’s one of the few things he must do without magic; he can make beans grow from the smallest dash of soil, and mix herbs to fill his stomach for days, but it’s against the art of his craft to lure living beings to their death. And so he simply sits on the ice and waits, listening to the chatter of the stars. The wind feels benign, now, shifting across the snow. He watches the patterns that form in its wake.

He was only a young witch, when the Paemani began to invade the edges of Svearike. An apprentice to the King’s Circle. It was a long, bitter battle, and in the midst of war he learned the art of peace. By the time the front lines arrived to lay siege on the castle, much of the country’s strength had already waned. Niall was charged with the final task, to save the King and his Queen, to vanish them into the night as their world crumbled around them.

When he was captured months later, living as a vagrant in one of the ruined lesser cities, he was banished like the rest of his kind to the far edges of Vor Sonne; the land beyond the sun. A land so wide and vast and empty that to attempt a return might be suicide in itself. As far as he’d travelled from his small holding, he’d never been able to find another human. He’d never been able to find an end to the ice. He’d abandoned all hope.

Deep below the ice, something nibbles. Niall teases the line until it catches and then draws it quickly in, staring bright eyed at the large, silver fish hooked to the end of it. The air becomes heavy with the potent instinct of survival. It’s a feeling Niall knows all too well.

“You will live again,” he murmurs to the fish, watching it thrash on the snow, reaching to trace his fingers along its slippery scales. He teases the life out of it. It flops again, and then lies still.

“With the moon as my witness,” he whispers, and he releases its life to the wind.

-x

The man awakens not long after Niall finishes cooking the fish. He’s about to dig in to its soft, white flesh when the stranger’s eyes fly open and he sits straight up, gasping for air. It nearly sends Niall out of his skin, with the suddenness of it all; the irises of his eyes are so brilliant green as to match the emerald that lies hidden beneath his shirt. The man looks around, seeing but not seeing, fighting at his furs. Niall drops his fork to the table and hurries over, kneels beside him and reaches for his shoulder.

“You’re safe, you’re safe,” he urges, though he keeps his grip tight, ready for a fight that may or may not come. The man is breathing hard when his wild eyes finally connect with Niall’s.

“Who are you?” the man demands, and though his voice struggles to be authoritative, it’s laced with a chilling sort of terror, raspy with the lasting effects of the cold.

“I’m- I’m Niall,” Niall begins, and it feels foreign on his tongue. He hasn’t spoken the word to anyone in so long. He realizes he’s forgotten what it’s like, to exist in the eyes of others. To exist to anyone but himself. The man sits up straighter, eyes flickering around the room.

“And what are you?” he asks, taking in the cauldron on the fire, the leather-bound books on the shelf, the jars of herb. Niall follows his gaze, struggling for an answer. He can’t very well say Niall Horan, member of the King’s Circle of Svearike. Niall Horan, banished by the Kingdom of Paeman.

“I’m…” he falters, looking to Scully for help. She only twitches her nose, all attention trained on the stranger. “I live here,” he finishes lamely. The stranger stares at him, though he doesn’t move.

“Magic is forbidden,” he hisses, voice lower now. Niall furrows his brow in confusion.

“It is?” he asks. The stranger’s eyes widen.

“It’s a danger to Paeman. It’s evil. It’s forbidden.”

Niall can only stare back at him. In a way, he’s not surprised. Magic was the strength of Svearike. It’s the reason the royals were, as far as he knows, never found. Never brought to the centre of Lanesra Square to be beheaded. But they’re far from Paeman, now. Far from its laws and its rituals.

“We’re not in Paeman,” he counters, though gently, not cruelly, “we’re in Vor Sonne.”

The man stiffens, and Niall can almost see the memory returning to him. Like the changing winds across the ice. Eventually, he slumps, brings his hands to fold over his scalp.

“My head,” he mumbles, and he closes his eyes. He instantly becomes young. Niall springs up, hurries to his shelf and reaches for the jar containing Feverfew. A well-known remedy for headaches of any kind. Carefully, he scoops water from the cauldron and sprinkles the herb in, stirring it briskly. As an afterthought, he adds a drop of honey. When he offers it to the stranger, the man wrinkles his nose and leans away.

“Drink this,” Niall urges. The man forces his eyes open, peers into the cup with an air of disdain.

“What is that?”

Niall firms his lips together at the suspicion in the stranger’s voice. When Niall was young, witches were revered for their healing capabilities. People came from far and wide for help, if you were good enough, and brought gifts and offerings. He can’t imagine Paeman, the state of the peoples’ health if even the simplest remedies are feared.

“Tea,” he tells him firmly, pressing it to his lips, “you must know what that is.”

The man glances at him, and for a moment Niall thinks he might refuse. But then he takes the smallest sip, tongue flicking over his lips, assessing the taste.

“Doesn’t taste like any tea I’ve had,” he frowns at it. Niall shrugs, holding the cup steady.

“It’s all I’ve got. It’ll help your head.”

The pain must be great, because it doesn’t take much for the man to give in, and when he does he drinks as if he hasn’t tasted a drop of liquid in days. Niall makes him another cup, and then offers him plain water, which he readily accepts. Nial thinks back to the dried berries and salted cheese in his bag. He wonders how long it’s been since the man last ate; his cheeks appear gaunt, his eyes underlined in deep purple. He wonders what drove him to venture into this land – whether he had a choice.

“Would you like some fish?” he asks, as the stranger gulps down the contents of his cup. The man’s eyes widen, and he nods eagerly, so Niall brings him his untouched dinner. The man finishes it in mere minutes, every last bite, scraping the plate clean with the edge of his fork. Niall can’t help but smile at the sight. It calms his soul, to be able to give again.

“You never told me your name,” he points out, when the stranger finally sets the plate down. The man fixes him in a steady gaze, reaching to run a hand through his thick, dark hair. His eyes give away his uncertainty, but Niall doesn’t move to reassure him. There’s not much one can do with a given name, and certainly if he’s Paemani he knows better than to reveal his true one. The man faces no danger in telling him.

“Harry,” the stranger finally concedes, “Harry of Paeman.”

Niall nods. It’s not a name he recognizes immediately. But Harry, too, must have been young when the war began. When it ended. Niall watches him, linking his name to his face. His cheeks have gone rosy, again, and Niall can imagine what they must be like when he isn’t ravaged by starvation. When all of the odd angles of his face are filled in.

“Do you know how you came to be in Vor Sonne?” he asks, softly this time. It’s an inherently delicate question, he knows. Harry frowns, brow creasing. He looks down at the furs that surround him and tugs on them slowly, pulling the long, slender hairs between his fingers. They seem to shimmer again. Harry is unphased by their reaction.

“I remember waking up in the cold. And it was very bright. White for miles.”

Niall nods. When he first arrived, the landscape had seemed blinding. He often got lost as the fogs rolled in off the ocean and everything became bright and impenetrable. Had Scully not been with him, the wind might have hollowed him out and turned him to snow, left to shiver across the landscape for all eternity. But Scully always knew how to lead him to safety. In a way, it was thanks to her he’d finally learned to focus on survival, rather than escape. It was her who had stopped him when found the stony outcrop, convinced him to make something more of it.

Harry continues slowly with his story, carefully, working out the details before he lets the words slip off his tongue.

“I had… a bag,” he realizes, and he looks around for it, feeling at the ground behind him. Niall senses his sudden urgency and points to it, where it lies still damp by the fire. Harry lets out a relieved breath when he sees it. “There was food in there, but not much. I’m not sure… I feel like I packed it, I must’ve. I recognized what I had. But I don’t remember packing it.”

His frown deepens, and he falls silent.

“I looked through it,” Niall admits, after a moment, nodding to the bag. Harry glances up at him again, expression wary. Eyes dark. “Mostly it was just empty herb satchels, there was some salted cheese, a handful of dried berries. I didn’t… find anything of value.”

He swallows, throat suddenly dry, thinking of the talisman around Harry’s throat. It takes all of his will not to glance at the man’s chest. Harry’s lips twitch, and he nods.

“That sounds about right. I must’ve used it all up. I don’t rememer – how did I end up here? With you?”

He looks around, again. This time without protest of the magical paraphernalia Niall so obviously owns. Niall tries to see it through his eyes, grey stone walls with the fire light flickering off them, worn books on crudely constructed shelves, rows of herbs neatly arranged, the cot in the corner. Niall’s done his best to make it feel comfortable, welcoming; to make it feel like a place that would belong to him. Carefully, he settles back, folding his arms around his knees.

“I’m really not sure. You were knocking at the door. There was a storm. When I opened it, you fell in. The wind felt wrong, so I pulled you through, and I haven’t moved you since.”

He doesn’t mention using the spearmint potion or finding the emerald. He doesn’t know how Harry would react.

“I just looked through your bag to try to find out who you were. I’m sorry about that. It didn’t tell me much”

Harry shakes his head, waves him off.

“I’d have done the same,” he admits.

Their eyes meet, briefly, and Niall wonders what Harry would have done had their roles been reversed. If Niall, a Svearikean witch and therefore an enemy, had stumbled through his door in dire need of help. Would he have turned him out to the cold, like his family did Niall’s King? Or would he have taken him in? Though Niall’s sure Harry must sense his scrutiny, Harry does not lower his gaze. Instead, he asks:

“What do you mean, the wind felt wrong?”

Niall stills, and frowns, only now realizing he let that detail slip. He’s not sure if it’s something he should hide, his affinities with certain things and quarrelsome relationships with others, but there’s clearly no point now. Out here, where it’s too cold for even the sun to rise, there can be no true law or punishment. No way for Harry to use the information against him.

“It was just, wrong. I don’t know. The wind out here always feels a certain way, and this one didn’t. This one felt like it was looking for something. It’s – a witch thing, I guess.”

He laughs a little, hoping for humour. But Harry’s mouth only twitches in the ghost of a smile before he’s glancing out the window, the pane so webbed with ice that even if daylight were  present, little could be seen through it.

“And now? What is the wind now?”

Niall shakes his head.

“As far as I can tell, it’s wind.”

They drift off into silence after that, and it’s clear to Niall that Harry needs more rest yet. He gives him another tea of Feverfew, adds a drop of lavender this time. Harry’s still weak from his experiences, too tired to protest as Niall leads him to his cot and urges him to use it. Within minutes, he’s asleep again. With a sigh, Niall cooks the rest of the fish, sharing bits with Scully until all that’s left is bones.

-x

Slowly, Harry regains his strength. In the hours when he’s awake, and as his memory improves, Niall learns bits and pieces of what has become of Svearike. According Harry, most of the lords have turned eagerly toward the new regime, offering their complete support. Niall assumes they’ve done this out of desperation – his heart won’t let him believe anything else. In the years since Niall was exiled, most dissenters have been rounded up and banished as well – Harry does not speak of the beheadings that were so prominent when the Paemani invasion first swept across the Northern lands. Niall, knowing full well that his own truth must remain hidden, leads Harry to believe that he himself was exiled by the Svearikean King. Harry is either naïve enough to believe him or wise enough to pretend to, and they manage to maintain a tender peace, Niall often biting his tongue when Harry speaks highly of his family’s accomplishments and the downfall of the country. In part, Niall can’t help but hate him and all that he stands for. But it’s a hate that’s hard to hold. He understands that Harry has never known what Svearike was like before, has never known its beauty and harmony. He understands that Harry was raised to believe a terrible lie.

The more the time goes on, the less certain Niall is of what he should do with Harry. It’s impossible that he might stay forever, in this one-room stone hut with its one cot, surrounded by things he can’t possibly understand. Even more impossible that he might venture back into the winter and survive. And it drains Niall, to live his lie – he often finds himself waking up in a cold sweat, tangled in his quilts on his makeshift bed, gasping for air. Terrified that Harry’s realized who he is, terrified of the talisman with its glowing green eye. It brings everything back, the fear that gripped his heart as he led his King through the damp, dark corridors beneath the castle, doing his best to prevent terror from soaking into his skin. The crushing effort of holding the protective charms steady while, somewhere above, his comrades fell one by one. Their loss ached in the marrow of his bones.

The wind felt wrong that night, too, when they finally emerged into the darkness of the woods. But the trees had stayed true and had cloaked their descent into the night, and the moon – as soon as Niall had felt the moon on his face, courage had blossomed through him. They’d made it to the river without incident, to the boat waiting in the still, silvery water. An old mage sat at the helm, ready to ferry the royals to their next destination. That was where Niall’s work ended. Before climbing into the boat, the King had clasped Niall’s hands between his own and fixed him in a steely gaze, his palms warm against Niall’s knuckles.

“I promise this isn’t the end,” he’d whispered. Niall could feel the truth in the words, in the ripple that spread across the water behind him. Despite his youth, in that moment the King spoke with the certainty of one who has seen far too much, who has lost everything but hope, whose demons are always waiting around the next corner. Niall stood on the shore for a long time, watching them depart. Until the boat drifted off around a bend and they were lost from sight.

The one solace he had left was that the royals were safe. Where they were hidden, they would never be found. And Niall travelled far and turned to the streets, kept a low profile until the raids began and all those with magic in them were cast out. He, just like the rest of them, had been scattered to the ends of the world, and the ones responsible never even realized who he was. What he’d done. What he knew. He isn’t planning on giving that up now. He doesn’t know what Harry might be capable of, if he had enough reason.

It’s a week later that Harry’s strong enough to follow him on his daily tasks. He wraps himself in his furs – Niall’s become used to how they shimmer and waver – and together they step out beneath the crystal sky. Niall hears the whoosh of breath leave Harry’s lungs as he sees, finally, the beauty that lies beneath the treachery of Vor Sonne.

“This isn’t even the best part,” he tells him, trying not to gloat. He leads Harry along to where the ice creaks and moans like a ship in sleepy harbor. “On certain nights the lights come, and they dance.”

Harry stumbles a little, on their way, and Niall laughs when he finds that it’s because he can’t take his eyes off the sky.

“They looked different at home,” he tells Niall, “they weren’t as bright. You didn’t notice them as much.”

Niall shakes his head, slowing as they reach the fishing hole.

“Did they ever teach you anything about the stars?”

Harry comes to a stop beside him, furs grazing the ice without a sound.

“Not very much. All I know about them is questions.”

Niall nods, sets his line and lowers it into the water. Once he’s certain it’s right, he takes his seat next to the hole and leans his head back, blinking up at the sky.

“They sing, you know.”

And he knows, in a way, that he shouldn’t be telling Harry this. But it’s like a weight off his shoulders, to give him just one, small truth. To see the way he absorbs it, glances at Niall in disbelief. When Niall closes his eyes, he can feel them, aching.

“I don’t hear them,” Harry whispers, and Niall feels him lean in closer, “how do I hear them?”

Niall, in spite of himself, smiles.

“You listen, Harry. You just listen.”

Eventually, Harry lowers himself down. Though he complains of a crick in his neck, he can barely tear his gaze away from the scattered constellations.

“Do they sing all the time?” he asks, and Niall nods.

“Sometimes very softly, but they always do.”

He opens his eyes again, watches the long line of the fishing rod, the way it vanishes into the darkness of the water that laps gently below. The silence between them has become comfortable, easy since Harry first arrived. And though Niall still doesn’t trust him, he finds solace in his presence. It’s a welcome reprieve from the deafening loneliness of isolation.

At long last, something pulls on the line, and Niall reels it up quickly. Another fish of similar size to the last, thrashing and glittering in the moonlight. Automatically he reaches for it, fingertips to scales, freeing its soul from the confines of its body. He only remembers Harry’s presence when the fish falls still and there’s a shift behind him, and he turns to see Harry’s wide eyes staring down at the animal, gaze intent.

“What was that?” Harry asks, and Niall feels suddenly dizzy with fear.

“It’s – it’s how you kill fish,” he replies, doing his best to keep his voice even. It’s doubtful that Harry could spot it for what it truly is; an old magic, a traditional magic. But if Niall gives too much away, the pieces might start to come together in his mind. He prays for Harry’s ignorance to protect him.

Harry frowns, watching as Niall places the fish in his bucket and inspects the rod for damage.

“I imagined killing fish to be a lot more violent,” he muses. Niall only shrugs.

“There are non-violent ways to do most things.”

The crease this creates in Harry’s brow remains through their entire trek back, and Harry is quieter than usual, seemingly consumed by his thoughts.

-x

Harry’s memories are another thing. They seem to come and go, and he suffers frequent headaches which Niall does his best to remedy. Harry explains that the fragments usually come to him in his dreams; Niall experiences this first hand one night, when he is awakened by Scully nipping his ear. He reaches to swat at her, but he never gets the chance – the shape of Harry suddenly appears, his hands ripping at Niall’s sheets, voice whispering his name harsh against the silence. Instinctively, Niall reaches out to grab his arms, holding him still. He can feel Harry’s blood pounding through his veins, and he knows that he himself is panting, thrown by Harry’s unexpected actions.

“I need to remember,” Harry hisses, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, his skin ghostly pale, “I think – I have an idea, but I need to remember.”

Niall stares at him, sits up more. Harry trembles. Niall quickly releases him, wills the fire to burn brighter, to light the room.

“You can do that, right?” Harry continues, desperate, “you can help me remember? Please, I need –”

“Sit,” Niall instructs, and he pulls Harry down beside him, urging him to remain still. “Stay there. Breathe.”

Once he’s certain Harry’s panic has mostly subsided, he pads across the floor to dip a cloth in the water. He returns, pressing it carefully against Harry’s forehead. Harry stares up at him, and the green of his eyes seems dark, hungry. It sends a chill down Niall’s spine.

“You’ve got a fever. You’ve got worked up,” he tells him, tearing his gaze from Harry’s and focusing on wiping the sweat from his skin. His curls are dark and tangled with perspiration. Harry shakes his head.

“It’s just part of it, Niall. Part of remembering. But there’s a wall , I think there are certain things I’m not supposed to get back. Like someone’s put up a wall. I got pretty far on my own, but it’s too much. And I have to know.  Please, there must be something you can do.”

Niall firms his lips together, dabbing the cloth across Harry’s cheeks, against his throat.

“You need rest,” he tells him.

“No! I need to know what happened to me,” Harry raises his voice, now, and it cracks in a childish way. And it’s all Niall can do to remain neutral, to not give in to the pain and uncertainty he can feel radiating like heat from Harry’s skin.

“We will,” he soothes, smoothing back his curls, “when you’ve got your wits about you, we will.”

Harry lets out a sound, cracked and broken, and he curls in on himself, burying his face against his knees. And Niall knows without him saying everything that’s coiled up in his heart. I want to understand. I don’t want to be alone . As dry sobs wrack his body, Niall sets the cloth down and wraps his arms around him instead, rocking him gently. Breathes in the pain that plagues Harry’s chest. Breathes it out for him.

“I want to go home,” Harry chokes out, “I just want to go home.”

Niall clutches onto him tighter, pulling him close. He makes a soothing sound in his throat and rubs his back in slow, smooth circles. Eventually, the shaking of Harry’s shoulders subsides. Niall can feel his weight increase against him as the man gives in to the comfort, no longer too proud for this. He lowers him carefully onto the bed, pulls the furs around him and rests his hand against his forehead. The skin burns.

“I know,” Niall murmurs, once he’s sure he’s asleep, “I want to go home, too.”

-x

Harry says very little the next day, his eyes gaunt and vacant as they eat their breakfast, though his cheeks are no longer streaked with fever. Niall wants to blame half of it on the unending darkness – the absence of sun does things to people, drives them to madness. Before he was sent here, he heard stories about Vor Sonne, about how men went crazy out here – how they fed themselves to the land. But something tells him there’s more to what’s happening with Harry. After all, he isn’t just a man. He holds an emerald. And that makes his banishment suspicious; that makes it a mystery. The more Niall thinks about it, the more important he thinks it is to figure it out. What if someone’s coming to look for the man? What if he was sent here for a reason? To deliver a message, perhaps? What if all in Paeman is not as Harry remembers, after all?

“Are you sure about finding the memory?” he asks, finally, as Harry scoops the last of his soup from the bowl. Harry’s eyes flicker, but his expression is carefully neutral when he replies.

“I am.”

Niall nods, flicks his tongue over the chapped skin of his lips.

“You know… it could be dangerous. Sometimes, when memories are locked like that…”

Harry shakes his head, letting out a bitter laugh.

“It couldn’t get much worse than this, could it?”

Niall thinks better than to point out that any number of things might happen that could, potentially, be worse than this. They could both be killed. In his opinion, he would rather stay here for a long, long time like this, at least able to harbour a sort of hope of change. But then, that in itself is little better than being stuck in purgatory. So he makes his decision.

While Harry sinks back against the bed, still weary from the night before, Niall sorts through his jars until he finds the one labeled ‘Periwinkle’. It’s dusty, not often used, but he thanks the moon now that he managed to salvage it. He prepares his potion above the fire, stirs in rosemary and rue to better the effects of the brew. Both should protect against anything sinister that might be lurking. Once it’s boiled and turns the colour of pale rose petals, he scatters the periwinkle across the top and removes it from the heat.

“Alright,” he murmurs. Harry’s eyes drag open.

“Alright?” he asks. Niall nods, gesturing to the cauldron. Harry glances at it. “What is it?”

“It’s a potion. It brings back memories,” Niall explains quietly, peering down into it. It smells, faintly, of dust on a sunny afternoon. Fresh snow on Christmas morning. Stepping through the front door to a strong whiff of supper, cooking on the stove. He scoops some into a cup. Harry reaches for it.

“Will it hurt?” he asks, softer now. Niall shakes his head and then stops himself, frowning.

“Not physically.” He can’t speak for the memories it will bring. He hands the cup to the man, who takes it carefully.

Harry sniffs at the potion, closing his eyes again.

“It smells nice.”

Niall nods, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.

“The smell brings back the best memories, apparently. I’ve never tried more than that.”

Harry frowns a little, peering over at him once more.

“So do I just… sip it?”

Again, Niall nods.

“Slowly, at first. And then when you’re halfway done, you focus on what you want and you down the rest.”

Harry curls his hands around the cup, lifting it to his lips. He blows carefully across the surface to cool it, and then he takes his first sip.

Niall’s only seen this particular potion used twice. Once, to restore the memory of a man hit over the head during an attack with bandits. The other time, as a periodic remedy for an old woman’s dementia. As far as he can tell, from his limited experience, is that it has a different effect on each individual. Anger, sadness. Overwhelming joy.

The first thing Harry does is smile. And it’s a soft smile, one that reaches his eyes and brightens the features of his face, until he no longer looks to be half starved and half mad. Until he looks young again. When he opens his eyes, they gleam with tears of joy.

“Oh, Niall,” he whispers. Niall laughs quietly, nods to the cup.

“Keep drinking.”

Eagerly, Harry takes another sip. The potion animates him, and Niall finds it easy to imagine him as what he might have been – royalty, perhaps a prince. He can picture him galloping across spring fields on a proud horse, laughing jovially with the gentry at a long banquet table. A tear spills over the corner of Harry’s eye, trickles down his cheek. He lets out a laugh that catches in his throat, and he drinks the potion down. By the time he’s halfway through, his cheeks are slick with tears. Niall reaches to touch his elbow, and Harry looks toward him. Niall has to lower his gaze at the intensity of the gratitude written across Harry’s face. What’s to come certainly won’t be so pleasant, and he doesn’t need to remember this, these tender moments that have never really belonged to him.

“You’ve got to focus, now. Focus on the last thing you remember before you were here. And drink the rest.”

Harry nods, though his smile never wavers. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself, fixes his eyes on the opposite wall. Niall can see him fall into the memory, surround himself with it. He squeezes his elbow again, and then lowers his hand and scoots away, wary of what might happen next. Harry returns the cups to his lips, and downs the rest.

It starts in slowly. He squeezes his eyes closed, and the crease appears between his brow. He fidgets a little, turning the empty cup in his hands, and then all at once he goes still. Rigid. For a full minute, he sits like stone. Scully comes to climb on Niall’s shoulder, just as curious as he is. Just as riddled with anticipation. Harry’s breath starts to come faster, shorter, and then his eyes fly open and there’s a wildness in them, a fury.

“That bastard ,” he spits, and his fist clenches, and he looks toward Niall with such hatred and anger that Niall cringes back, Scully ducking behind his neck to peek out the other side. But the emotion isn’t aimed at Niall – Harry’s eyes are still unfocused, and he casts his gaze wantonly about the room. Then, he pulls himself to his feet and smashes the cup on the ground.

“Harry!” Niall shouts in surprise, springing up after him. But Harry’s in sudden motion, now, piling things back into his bag, scrambling to arrange his furs. Niall grabs at his arms, ducking away when Harry tries to fend him off.

“I’ve got to go, I’ve got to get back. I’m not supposed to be here. They’re- they’re going to –” he struggles to pull on his coat, and Niall takes the opportunity to move around to his other side. He reaches to clasp Harry’s shoulders, looks him in the eye.

“Stop,” he demands, throwing force into the word. Harry’s movements slow, though he sets his jaw defiantly, struggling against the command. Niall tightens his grip on his shoulder, pushes against the rigid wall of anger Harry’s put up. “Tell me,” he holds his gaze.

Harry presses his lips together, but the words escape in a snarl, anyway.

“They took my name. I have to get it back.”

Niall tries not to react, though his eyes widen.

“Who took your name?” he asks, urgently. Harry tries to shrug him off, but Niall doesn’t let go.

“They want to take the crown. They took my brother. I have to go back, before they do anything else. Niall please ,” he’s begging, now, and Niall can sense the panic that drives him, too. It’s there in his eyes, clearly written behind the authority he’s trying so hard to convey.

“You’ll die if you go out there, like this, alone,” he points out. Harry’s still panting, likely from the exertion of flying about the room. “You’re not strong enough. You don’t even have food, and you don’t know which way to go if there even is a way to go. I can’t let you leave.”

He watches as Harry considers his words; watches the acceptance slowly wash over him. He slumps into Niall, and Niall stumbles back, scrambling to get his arms around him before they both tumble to the floor. Harry lets out a single sob, face buried against his shoulder. Niall goes still for a moment, suddenly unsure. He’s been so far from humanity for so long, he’s forgotten about hurt and comfort. Forgotten how it feels to hold onto someone else. But Harry doesn’t release him, so Niall follows the lead of his arms and hugs him tighter.

“Hey,” he whispers against Harry’s curls, damp from exertion, “it’s okay. I can find a way.”

And he’s not sure whether it’s the truth. But the promise gives him hope, and hope is something he hasn’t had since the first time the darkness fell.

Harry curls into him more, clutches onto him.

“You have to,” he mumbles back, “you have to. Whatever you’ve done to get here, I’m sure, if you just get me back, the King will pardon you. My father will pardon you.”

And, though Niall holds him close, he also builds walls around his heart. Because Harry’s just confirmed what he already thought to be true – he is a prince of Paeman. He is an heir to the throne.

If anyone can get Niall back into the country, it’s Harry. And, once Niall’s there, he can find the Circle again. He can reconnect with the true King of Svearike. He can help them take back the country.

-x

Niall learned his own name when he was very young. At high tide on a full moon. He saw it written in the reflection of the light when the water fell unnaturally still, and with it came a knowing: who he was, and who he would always be. Who he had always been. Your name, your true name, is what gives you your belonging to your soul. It’s what allows you to understand the powers that make you, and to harness them; it’s the strongest form of protection.

To take one’s name is to have a certain control over them. To get one’s name back, one must find it oneself. There’s no memory potion in the world strong enough to do it for you.

-x

Though Harry is impatient, Niall takes his time ensuring that they’re adequately prepared. He catches more fish, and they eat well in the days leading up to their departure. Slowly, he says goodbye to his stone hut. Pulls the star maps down from the walls and rolls them tightly, moves his herbs to cloth bags so they might better survive the long journey. From the bookshelf, he conjures a sleigh, and he piles the most essential books on it under the strongest waterproofing charm he knows, whispering against the snow and ice and rain that might befall them. He arranges his cauldrons on top, stuffs them with his herbs and other essential ingredients. Ties his maps beside them, and piles furs on top of that. Scully makes a small nest among them, staring out at him with unamused eyes when Niall jokes that they might turn her into a husky with the strength of ten to pull them across the frozen landscape. His real plan is a lot less sound than that; he’s going to use the wind. How ironic that the one element he’s always been at odds with is the one that might save him. He prays with everything he’s got for it to work – he doesn’t have another way.

Harry grows quickly stronger as the days go on, increasingly willing to try the various potions Niall offers. By the time they’re well and truly ready, his cheeks have filled out, and the hollows beneath his eyes have faded. He appears broader, prouder, and more determined. They ready the sleigh, piling the last of their items onto it, and then Niall steps back into the empty hut one last time. When he looks around it, he still sees his home, with comfort etched into the walls. He doesn’t know where he’ll end up, if they even make it back to Svearike. He won’t be able to follow Harry beyond the castle gates, he knows for a fact – he’ll probably disappear once they cross the border, leave Harry believing he was nothing more than some petty criminal, or someone banished for simple use of witchcraft. By the time Harry finds out who Niall really is, Niall will already be long gone, and they will owe each other nothing.

He runs his fingers along the wall, feels the stone shift and stir beneath them. One day, this place will be nothing more than a very long dream. He stops in front of the fire, and lets it burn out. Grabs the single log from the pit and turns to leave.

He secures the log under the furs, and then climbs onto the back of the sleigh where Harry already stands, tall and ready. Niall gives him a nod, and Harry returns the gesture. Scully wiggles around in her nest. She will be the eyes, while Niall focuses all of his energy on driving them forward. It takes him a moment to harness the wind, to convince it to do as he asks. It swishes and swirls around him, tugs at their furs and nudges the sleigh. Finally, once he’s stroked its ego enough, it falls to their backs. The sleigh begins to slide across the ice, carrying them away from the rocky outcrop. Away from what little they’ve known.

Behind them, the stone hut crumbles quietly back to the earth from which it came. Niall blinks the tears from his eyes. The journey begins.

-x

As always, Niall uses the stars to guide them. This time is decidedly different from his other attempts at escape – this time, he’s got his whole world with him. The necessities for survival. This time, there’s no going back.

The plan is to head south until they find vegetation, soil, mountains; anything to indicate where they are in the world. If fate is with them, they’ll be on the correct side of Vor Sonne. Something in Niall’s gut tells him he’s chosen the right path.

They travel until he begins to tire from the effort of negotiating with the wind. It’s never been happy going in one direction for long, tries to nudge them to the East or West, earning a sharp squeak from Scully each time they veer off course. Finally, he lets it go off to do as it will, and they stop to make a small camp. Niall prepared ample warming potion for the journey, and he digs a handful of garnets from his satchel to provide light as they set up camp. There is no need for fire, deemed too dangerous considering they don’t know who might be watching, looking. While Harry prepares the furs, Niall sets protective charms around them, pulls the darkness in closer like a blanket. They have a small meal of dried fish and nuts, and then curl under their furs while Scully keeps watch. Niall falls asleep to the stars singing softly above. Oddly enough, the sound now holds more comfort than pain.

Some time later, he awakens abruptly. Someone’s shaking him, and his first instinct is to fight, but then Harry’s voice cuts through his brief panic and he realizes that the dark shape above him is only the prince.

“Stop, it’s me! I wanted you to see,” he whispers. Niall takes a deep breath, staring up at him. It’s then that he notices the shifting light across his face. Harry points, up at the sky, and Niall tilts his head back until the aurora borealis comes into view. It shimmers and dances against the night, blue and green, illuminating the ice below.

“I think I saw it before,” Harry’s still murmuring, as if he’s afraid to frighten the moment away, “when I was stranded out here. I feel like this isn’t the first time. But then, it also is. It’s... one of those things where every time’s like the first time.”

He speaks slowly, thoughtfully. Niall nods, looking back at him. His skin is pale, illuminated in this way. Then, it’s always been pale, even under the soft glow of fire light.

“I’m sure you must have seen before,” he agrees, just as softly, “the sky does it sometimes. I’m not sure why.”

Harry smiles, gaze fixed upon the mystery.

“I’m glad the world is still beautiful.”

Niall moves to ask what he means, and then he realizes he already knows. He’s always known. Underneath and around and above them, above their ugliness and their war, their treason and their treachery, the world goes on. This place may be their prison, but it is not a prison in itself. It’s simply a land of snow and ice, caught between the sun and the moon, the darkness and the light. It’s the edge of the world and the top of it. It wasn’t meant for them. It was never meant for them. Perhaps this time, it will let them go.

“We could be beautiful, too,” Niall says, mostly to himself, “if we all stopped hating and fighting and taking.”

He can’t help the bitterness that edges into his tone. Harry looks down at him, and his gaze seems full. And his smile sad.

“We could, couldn’t we?”

Niall can’t quite muster an answer. He’s too busy longing for a simpler time, a peaceful time. Harry watches him for a long moment before looking back up at the light.

“We could.”

-x

When they awaken again, the light is gone. They take small sips of the warming potion and pile everything back onto the sleigh. Niall pulls his cloak tight around himself. The sky’s still clear, but the wind’s picked up. Gently he summons it to their backs, careful not to offend its restless nature. It comes somewhat willing today, with little more protest than a sigh, and they quickly start off on their way.

Most of what they see for the first part of their journey is snow and ice. The only indication of their progress is the changing orientation of the stars overhead. They don’t spend too much time talking; mostly, Harry asks Niall about his magic. Now that he’s no longer afraid, he’s become fascinated by it, and Niall tells him as much as he can without telling him anything at all.

“In a way,” Harry begins, as they sail across the frozen land, gripping the sleigh tight, “I’m glad you were sent off before they cracked down on witchcraft. It’s been terrible, what they’ve done. They don’t kill them, of course – they’re too afraid – but a lot of people have been stripped of everything. I never thought – they always told me,” he frowns, and he lowers his voice, looking at Niall with wide, apologetic eyes, “they always told me they worked with the devil, that they’re against God. I don’t know how I believed them. I don’t know if I believed them, or if it was just easier that way. To pretend. I’m sorry.”

Niall shakes his head, and curls his hand over Harry’s. It’s clumsy, with their gloves, but it seems to comfort the other man.

“I haven’t lived it. I don’t know what’s happened. Don’t apologize to me. When you get back…” he trails off, a frown ghosting across his lips. But Harry understands without Niall saying. He turns his hand to wrap it back around Niall’s, squeezing it in a promise.

“When I get back, things are going to change.”

He sounds so sure of himself that Niall has to glance away. He’s not wrong, he supposes; they are going to change, but not in the way Harry expects. If Niall has anything to do with it, Harry and his family won’t be responsible for what happens in Svearike any more.

It must be days, that they travel without seeing any evidence of the end of Vor Sonne. But then, suddenly, by the light of the moon the change in the landscape becomes apparent. Niall lets out a shout that sends Harry nearly toppling off the sleigh, but a moment later Niall brings it to a stop and leaps off, falls to kneel by the small shrubs poking through the snow. They’re woody, only branches now, but Niall pulls his gloves off and reaches to touch them and chokes back a sob. They’re alive . He can feel the life through them. He can feel it coiled deep in the roots, burning and glowing and persistent. When he looks out further, he can see the shape of stunted trees, black silhouettes against the white. He curls in on himself and begins to cry.

There is life, in Vor Sonne. There are the fish and larger things that swim beneath the ice. There are great, white bears and silent foxes. But there are no plants. No true plants, growing of their own volition.

It’s been so long.

He feels Harry’s hand against his back, hesitant and then firm. The branches are rough against his palms. The snow crunches beneath his knees.

“We made it,” he murmurs.

They set up camp among the short, twisted pines. Niall must run his fingers over the slender needles a thousand times. Every breath feels new. They chance a fire and cook their dinner, soft grains and dried berries, hot against their tongues. Niall laughs while he eats, and the sound must be contagious because Harry laughs, too. Once their bellies are full, they pour over the maps Niall’s brought with them – first those of the stars, to figure out roughly where they might be in a latitudinal sense, and then they inspect the maps of the world.

“If we’re far to the east, we’ll hit the Severny River,” Niall points, trailing his finger along the line of the great river that winds down through the Obytel Mountains. It’s far off from where they need to be, Svearike untouched by its expansive delta, but at least they’d have a path to follow. “Far to the west, and we’ll hit the Airraidh Sea.” This is their best bet. On the map, it takes up much of the northwestern world; if they follow its coast to the southeast they’ll reach the road that will take them to Svearike.

“And if we’re not too far either way…?” Harry asks, gesturing to the space above Svearike. Niall lets out a breath.

“Then we’ll meet the Vilseles.”

Harry’s eyes widen, and Niall glances over, grinning a little.

“I’d rather the Airaaidh Sea, I think,” Harry decides, and Niall laughs.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. There is a pass through the Vilseles, I think, that we could take if we had to.”

Harry furrows his brow, leaning to peer more closely at the map. The pines rustle about them.

“I thought that was only a legend.”

Niall shakes his head, finds the small dotted line traced through the treacherous peaks of the Northern range.

“There. It’s supposed to be there.”

Harry licks his lips, and Niall can feel his discomfort growing.

“I’ve heard things about those mountains,” he mutters. Admittedly, Niall has too, although the things he’s heard are reassuring. Before, when the Paemani invasion was still far from their borders, there was talk of a Loyalist stronghold being built in the Vilseles. If they can make it there and find the passage, Niall will have all the more chance of reconnecting with his people.

“Stories,” he mumbles back, smoothly covering his deceit, “nothing could live there long.”

Harry lets out a humourless laugh, leaning back from the map. The firelight casts shadows over his face.

“That bodes well for us, then, doesn’t it?”

Niall shakes his head, offering him a smile.

“But we escaped Vor Sonne. We can do anything.”

They’re surprised, in the morning, by a light on the horizon. Harry stares at the pink glow as if witnessing some strange miracle. It’s soft, but it still casts slight shadows across the land, illuminating where the snow dips and rolls, giving texture to the spaces between the trees. As they continue south, they catch glimpses of gold beneath the pink. The snow becomes crisper and more brittle, the ground begins to take a shape beneath them – no longer flat and white, with dark branches of winter-hidden shrubs scattering gentle hill sides and persistent pines dotting slight valleys where water must run in the spring. As the hours stretch on, clouds begin to scatter across the sky. Quick as they travel, the sun is still faster, dipping back below the horizon and leaving them to the night once more. But there is a certain trace of it that remains with them, an affirmation that they’ve found the right path. They continue in this way over a handful of days, each growing longer, each leading them through more prominent vegetation. Niall collects bits and pieces of things he might need; his own herbs are old or magic-grown, lacking in the true power of the natural world. He explains to Harry that even adding one sliver of bark from a naturally-grown tree can make a potion significantly more effective. That’s why witches make real gardens, go out into the forest and collect what they desire, pay good money for ingredients that can’t be found or grown near their homes. It keeps them humble, keeps them cognizant of their debt to nature.

Eventually, they reach a stream. It’s the first running water Niall’s seen in years. Tufts of brown grass poke through the snow around them, growing especially promiment along the bed. Harry glances at Niall, and Niall knows what he’s thinking – that perhaps this might be the start of a much greater river.

“This definitely isn’t the Severny,” he answers the unspoken question, “it’s flowing the wrong way, to the North. And it’s too small.”

Harry nods, giving him a little grin and a shrug.

“Worth some hope, right? It’s good to see, though. Water always tastes better when it’s fresh.”

They stop to fill up their canteens, the stream flowing cold against their fingers. In spite of the chill, Niall feels as if he, too, might be thawing slowly. There are pieces of himself that become less numb the further they travel – he’s begun to laugh more, he’s begun to crave the taste of good food. What’s more, his magic has become lighter; it no longer sits heavy in his chest and shoulders, but flitters around him, joyful. He thinks Harry’s seen it, too; he often catches him looking over when he’s preparing meals, and finds him hovering more when he mixes his potions, curious about the craft. The air between them has grown incredibly easy. Together, escaping beyond the ice, exclaiming at little bits and pieces of life... Niall allows himself, momentarily, to forget the magnitude of their mission.

As they collect their water, Scully hops from the sleigh and comes to the edge of the stream, nibbling at the grass. Niall offers her water from his canteen, but she turns up her nose and gets her own instead, much to Harry’s delight. Once their canteens are full, Harry bumps his against Niall’s in a careful toast.

“Cheers,” he grins, and takes a long sip. Niall laughs and does the same. The water is sweet and cool like a mountain spring, trickling down his throat.

“That tastes a hell of a lot better than boiled snow,” he decides. Harry wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, nodding.

“Sure does. I say we stick with the river as long as we can, enjoy it while it lasts.”

Niall thinks of the possible paths they might take to Svearike. If they’re en route to the Airraidh Sea, the snow will likely vanish soon, and this may be their only source of water. However, the river suggests the mountains lie ahead. He feels a sick excitement build in his stomach at the thought, but he pushes it down, giving Harry a friendly nudge.

“I say that’s the best idea you’ve had in a while.”

Harry looks offended, for a moment, at the gentle insult, and then laughs aloud, leaning his head back. Niall smiles, sipping his water again. He imagines there must not have been many in Paeman who could catch the prince off guard like that, but out here, still miles from home, they are equals. He won’t let Harry forget that.

Following the stream proves to be somewhat difficult, because it often disappears under snow crust or through the permafrost and they have to ride a few miles before it emerges again.  Harry, however, seems to have a nose for it – he urges Niall to alter their direction just slightly whenever they happen to inadvertently veer off course. The clouds continue to gather in the sky. By full nightfall, the wind’s picked up. It’s nothing like the harsh, cold gales of Vor Sonne, but it’s enough to make them huddle against the side of the sleigh, Niall doing his best to put up a barrier against the storm. He’d come to a sort of understanding with the wind blowing in from the North, but now he feels it changing, shifting around as the West wind struggles for dominance. In the end, they simply pull the furs up over their heads and secure themselves beneath them to keep the worst of it out. Scully crawls under his coats to tuck herself against his throat, clearly unimpressed with the situation. Almost as soon as they’re settled in, he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When they awaken in the morning, the clouds are thick around them. It makes Niall think of the dense fogs that used to climb down into the valley at Svearike. He’d been getting used to the idea of daylight again, with the sun showing itself more and more above the horizon, but today all is shades of grey and white. He still feels exhausted in spite of his rest, weary through to his bones. Their progress grows slower, though Harry does his best to help navigate, even offers to push the sleigh for a while. Niall waves him off.

“It’s the fecking wind,” he complains, “it doesn’t want to listen now.”

And indeed, it swirls around them and fights against him. Apparently, the West won. After a few hours of struggle Harry forces him to stop.

“Have you got anything you can take? Anything to help?” he asks, concern etched in his tone. Niall lowers himself carefully to the ground, presses his gloved fingertips to his temples. He can already feel a headache coming on. Scully emerges from beneath the furs, leaps smoothly onto his shoulder and comes to sniff at his cheek. Niall smiles a little, turning his head to give her a kiss on her nose. She crawls closer, curling into her familiar place at the crook of his neck.

“Not much. Feverfew, that’ll help my head.”

He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. He can hear Harry rummaging about in his bags, and the wind scraping across the land. It doesn’t help that the moon’s been waning, that the tides are weak. And the western wind has always been temperamental.

“Do I need to do anything with it?” Harry asks, returning to his side with the bag of the herb. Niall shakes his head a little.

“Just put it in my water.”

He hands over the canteen, and Harry unscrews it, dusting a small bit of the Feverfew in. Niall takes it back and shakes it carefully, takes a long sip. The pounding in his head seems to lessen.

“Are you sure you don’t have anything else?” Harry asks. He moves to sort through the bag again, brow furrowed in concern. Niall watches. What he really needs is moon stone. But of course, they didn’t let him take any of that with him. And stones, unlike herbs, can’t be teased into existence from barely anything.

“Nothing strong enough. Not unless you’ve got something at the bottom of your bag.” He thinks back to the few odds and ends Harry had on him. They didn’t seem of much significance to Niall – a cube of salted cheese isn’t going to restore him. But Harry reaches for his pack, anyway. He pulls out his journal and sets it to the side. Pulls out a few bags of emergency herbs Niall gave him, in case they somehow got separated from each other. Reaches back in and pulls out the bag of odd rocks Niall only glanced at when he first looked through his possessions.

“Could any of these help?” Harry asks, carefully dumping them into his hand. He offers it out to Niall, and Niall leans to see. There is no moon stone among them. He’s never been good with rocks as a magical tool – it’s not in his tradition.  His people always had a better hand with things that are living – the hut was his greatest accomplishment of stone craft, and that’s little more than an apprentice’s task to make. And everyone knows garnets give light. Still, he tugs off his glove and reaches to touch each of the rocks in turn. Some traditions, he knows, rely heavily on stones, and all people are kin to gems.

“Where’d you get these?” he asks. He can certainly feel something stirring within each of them, something magic. Harry only shrugs, looking them over.

“Not really sure. I forgot they were in here until now.”

Niall pauses his fingers on one of the rocks. It’s a deep orange, and when he touches it he feels a small inkling of relief

“What’s this?” he asks, picking it up carefully. Harry leans to study it for a moment, scrunches his face and then perks up.

“Amber. It’s amber, it’s from tree sap. I think… I think that’s what you need,” he frowns again, pulling his hand back and looking the other stones over, “something just tells me.”

Niall glances at him, curls his hand around the amber and holds it close to his chest. It’s not as strong as moon stone, and when he rubs his thumb against it he doesn’t feel magic surge through him. But he does feel a sense of calm. A strength that grows out from his core. Harry sits beside him and leans into him, lifting each stone one by one, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. Niall rests his head against his shoulder, watches with heavy eyes.

“I think these are mine,” Harry decides eventually, inspecting one that’s deep purple flecked with white, “I think they’ve been mine for a long time. I don’t remember who gave them to me… but they have some sort of magic, yeah?”

He looks over at Niall, and Niall nods slowly. Harry licks his lips and turns back to the stones.

“I think I feel it. I can’t feel the wind the way you talk about, or the stars. I feel these, though.”

Niall laughs quietly, watches the curve of his jaw.

“They were special to you.”

Harry purses his lips, stares down at them.

“I wish I remembered why.”

Niall can’t think of much of a reason, either. He knows very little about Paemani magic – startlingly little. The practice has long been banned there, after all.

“Maybe the person who gave them to you was special,” he muses.

Harry hums thoughtfully, turns the stones over in his hands. Eventually, he slides them back into the bag and ties it tight, returning it to his pack. They don’t say much more; it’s clear Harry’s still mulling over their meaning, their importance. Niall wonders what he senses in them. Most plausibly, they might be a family heirloom – those are always wrought with strange powers. Or perhaps he was given them by a healer. He doesn’t voice his thoughts aloud, however; he doesn’t want to disrupt Harry’s own train of thought.

He lets the other make their dinner this time, mostly because the prince absolutely refuses to let Niall help. Despite his questionable heritage, he has always been persistent in his kindness. He hums to himself while he stirs the oats in the pot. Niall smiles, watching. There is something oddly serene about the sight of it, Harry with his broad shoulders and long hair hunched over the little pot, his features soft. He grins when he catches Niall studying him, and Niall can’t quite bring himself to look away. So he only laughs, instead.

Later, as they scrape the bottoms of their bowls, Harry gives Niall’s arm a nudge and nods to where Scully’s nibbling on a seed.

“I hope this isn’t intrusive,” he begins, “but she seems like more than just a pet.”

Niall smiles and shrugs, looking down at the little creature.

“She’s my familiar. Like a companion? They watch over you.”

In truth, the bond is a lot more powerful than that, but Niall is still wary of how much he reveals. Harry doesn’t question his response. He watches Scully in wonder. She finishes her nut and looks back at him, sniffing in his direction.

“Do all witches have them?” Harry asks.

Niall frowns thoughtfully.

“Sort of, yes. Sometimes you don’t have one. Other times, you have more than one. Scully isn’t my first; I used to have a cat.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, looking back up at him.

“A cat?”

Niall nods, amused by his interest.

“Cleopatra. She was my mother’s, first, and then she became mine. I had her for years. They live longer than regular animals, but she was very old by the time I got her, and she passed away.”

It had happened a few months after the fall of Svearike, as Niall was acting out his role of beggar in the streets of a southern city. Cleo, with her green-gold eyes and ginger-dappled fur, curled tight in his lap until her very last breath. And then he’d truly been alone.

Harry frowns, his gaze gone sad.

“I’m sorry.”

Niall smiles ruefully, reaching to stroke Scully’s spine.

“That’s life, isn’t it? It comes and goes. I’d already seen Scully, by then, she was always around. I think she was waiting for the right time. And then one night she came and curled under my chin, and that’s when I knew.”

Harry leans in closer, reaching to let her sniff at his fingertips. She wraps her paws around one and inspects his nail intently, gives his skin a little nip before letting go.

“Ow!” Harry snatches his hand away, inspecting for evidence of a wound. Niall lets out a laugh and scoops the rat up, depositing her in his lap where she promptly tucks herself against his stomach.

“Sorry, she’s just not sure of you yet. She’s also got a personality on her,” he traces his thumb over her ear. She radiates warmth, evidently pleased at the trouble she’s caused. Harry pouts at his finger.

“It’s fine, she didn’t draw blood,” he sighs, watching her again, “doesn’t she like me?”

Niall smiles, lifting his gaze to the concerned lines of Harry’s face.

“I think so. She’s just teasing you.”

Harry frowns a little, and then nods to himself.

“I hope so. I’m not a threat.”

For the first time, Niall realizes how much he believes this. There is a kindness in Harry, a strong desire to please without appeasing. A curiosity about the world, an openness to new ideas. He is, Niall thinks, everything that a good ruler should be. For a moment, his thoughts turn to his own King. Though young when he came into power, he wasn’t quite like Harry. He’d had a different feeling about him; his presence commanded immediate respect, and he held himself with the cool confidence of someone in charge. It was easy to call him aloof, inexperienced, self-centred, but despite his sharpness he had also been generous. He had cared for his people. He had led them through years of war, until the very bitter end.

He would have stayed and fought and died in the last battle, too, if only Niall had let him. But Niall could not let him. Not then, not ever.

Harry tucks away their dinner things and arranges the furs back around them. The wind has died down considerably, but Niall holds on to the amber just in case, letting Scully curl in her place against his throat. He can feel Harry shift beside him as he falls asleep, growing heavy where he’s pressed to Niall’s side. Niall watches the stars until exhaustion takes its tender hold and pulls him from the night.

-x

He feels better the next day, and tucks the amber in his pocket as they prepare to continue their journey. From there, the pines grow thick around them. The ground begins to slope up. The clouds stay low, blocking out the world above them, but Niall knows: they’ve hit the mountains. They stick fully to the stream bed, now, the only clear path winding its way through the forest. When even that grows too narrow, they stop and regroup, looking the sleigh over.

“I think we have to change our methods,” Harry suggests, looking up in the direction they’re headed. It’s a maze of trees and branches. Niall nods his agreement.

“Let’s fill our packs, then. We’ll be on foot from here.” He steps to start untying the furs, extracting his bag from beneath them and setting it on the ground. “Mine’s charmed, you can fit pretty much anything in it.”

Harry stares at him for a moment, mouth agape.

“Why didn’t we just do that before?! Instead of tying the furs down every time? And stacking your books?” The shadowy trees rustle, apparently agreeing with Harry’s indignant confusion. Niall glances back at the sleigh.

“Uh.”

They leave it at that.

Carefully, the two men fold everything into Niall’s bag. It’s still light as a feather when he pulls it onto his back. Harry’s not so fortunate, grumbling as he slings his own, normal pack over his shoulders.

“If we get separated, you’ll need what’s in there to survive,” Niall insists, ignoring his chagrin and giving him a little shove to start walking. He’s already dismantled the sleigh, left the parts too big to carry scattered through the woods. Almost as an afterthought, he puts a spell on their boots to keep them from leaving tracks, and reminds Harry not to snap any branches if he can help it. Though the world still feels desolate and empty, he knows they’re closer to civilization than they have been for a long, long time. It’s both a relief and a danger. Harry just sighs at his nettling and trudges along the bank, climbing through the darkening woods.

They make camp in a spot that’s relatively flat. While there’s been no sign of another living soul, Niall feels distinctly uneasy. He insists that they enjoy the last of their dried fish in lieu of building a fire, just to be safe. Harry takes it all in his stride, though he himself doesn’t seem too concerned, putting full faith in Niall’s spell-casting abilities. Before they sleep, Niall builds up the protective charms around them, mumbling his spells under his breath, rendering their small bubble nearly impenetrable. Now that he isn’t using all of his energy to harness the wind, he can put more into protecting and defending the little trio as they venture further into the unknown.

Walking is considerably slower than sledding, even when Niall uses every sort of magic he can think of to ease their travel. The snow grows deeper and the air thinner with each passing day. They reach the cloud cover and climb though it, stringing a rope between them for fear they might get lost in the thick fog. By the third day after leaving the sleigh, they emerge above the tree line and begin to hike along a ridge. For a moment, the clouds shift, and Niall’s breath catches in his throat at the way it sweeps away into a twisted expanse of ice below them. He continues the trek in terror, always glancing back to make sure Harry hasn’t tumbled over the edge.

Each night, Niall stirs Pennyroyal into their water to improve their strength and endurance. At first, their bodies seem to ache more every morning, and each night they fall into exhausted slumber as soon as they’ve filled their stomachs. But slowly, Niall can feel his muscles tighten and grow, can sense his body moulding itself to fit the task he’s set upon it. Harry ties his hair up like a warrior, and they venture further into the mountains with each hour that passes. Finally, with the contours of the landscape so large and clear, they manage to pinpoint their location at the Northwestern edge of the Vilseles. They start heading East toward the pass, eventually winding their slow way back down into another valley where evergreens grow thick and tall.

Sometimes, all they can hear is the wind. Other times, they hear rumbling that sounds like thunder, far off in the distance. They agree that these must be avalanches, and Niall adds that to his list of things to worry about, out here in the wild. It’s impossible not to feel small in this vast, dynamic landscape. They’re only two specks against the snow, caught in an expanse of rock that’s ever rising, ever shifting, ever crumbling.

They take to huddling close at night, as Niall can’t grow more ingredients for the warming potion while they’re on the move. He can use pure magic to keep the worst of the cold at bay, but the warmth no longer radiates from within, and it’s easier to sleep with the promised comfort of someone beside you. He becomes used to the familiar form of Harry there; used to waking up in a tangle of limbs, soft breaths across his cheek.

He begins to forget that Harry is meant to be his enemy. He forgets that he’ll eventually have to leave him. He only thinks of it once, when he considers sending Scully along to keep an eye on him, but she squeaks indignantly at that. It’s funny; Cleo always lived a life independent of their bond, disappearing for days rarelyand relying on him for anything. Scully, on the other hand, never leaves his side. It’s not a question that she will stay with him indefinitely. Until the very end. Her soul is bound to his.

-x

They reach the pass on their seventh day of walking. It’s narrow, with steep rock faces on either side. Clouds roll in and snow swirls down in a frenzy. Niall’s stomach twists with sick anticipation – there is no other way. This is the bottleneck, the point where they’ll be most exposed to whomever might be lurking in the mountains. Though neither man says it, it’s clear they’ve been running on pure determination alone. Behind them is ice. Ahead of them is ice. The only promise of an end of this hell is some old lines on an old map. Everything is damp; their furs, their boots, their packs. Niall can’t help but have great respect for any human who might have travelled here without use of magic, who used their own ingenuity and strength to keep themselves alive. He wonders how many the mountains have claimed, how many souls wander lost between them. Sometimes, he feels like he sees them in the shadows of the trees, but they vanish whenever he turns toward them. Harry comes down with a bad case of the sniffles, one that seems to catch in his lungs. Niall makes him an especially potent potion with the last of the Rue, in the hopes of eradicating the infection before it can take hold.

He wakes with a start in the night. Harry is tucked beneath his arm, drawing slow, rasping breaths in through chapped lips. This is the first thing Niall listens to. Though he still sounds ill, the rattle has left his chest, and he sense that Harry will be better by morning. However, that’s not the only thing he hears beyond the falling snow. There’s also a strange shuffling among the trees, noise that comes and goes. Niall stares out into the inky black, struggling to see. He dares not use a light; whatever it is, it’s best not to alert it to their presence. Best to trust the spells he’s cast to protect them. He tightens his arms around Harry, glancing back over his shoulder. Nothing. But Scully stands behind him, at the edge of their camp, frozen in place. Her whiskers twitch. Niall closes his eyes and sees what she sees, hears what she hears. The shapes of the trees become more apparent, though the spaces between them are empty still. And the strange shuffling is there, distinct now. In his own body, Niall feels his heart start pounding; it’s a sort of crunch, crunch toward them, something like foot steps. The air smells of tree bark and pine and freshly fallen snow. Were Niall not so full of dread, he might find it peaceful.

And then he feels the tug.

It starts small, at the edge of his conscience. He opens his eyes, looking quickly around. Something is nudging at his protective charms, feeling them out. Scully moves around the circle, eyes fixed steady on the trees. Still, nothing appears, but whatever – whoever – it is, they’ve found his magic. Niall can feel them poking and prodding, now, looking for weaknesses in his design. They know someone’s here. It’s likely they’ve been followed since they entered the pass, maybe even before. He sits up straighter, puts his resolve into holding the barriers against the unknown force. Harry stirs in his sleep, but does not wake. Niall hopes, prays that it’s the Loyalists and not some Northern outpost of the Paemani Guard. But he’s still fearful, either way. He realizes it’s been a long time since he was last home – even longer since he was involved with the Circle. He doesn’t know what’s changed, doesn’t know who survived, doesn’t know who he can trust. He doesn’t know what will become of Harry if they find him now.

The prodding eventually stops, but Scully doesn’t leave her post. A few, tense minutes pass, and then a figure materializes from the shadows of the woods. They’re dressed in a uniform as black as the night, a jacket that fits tight to their broad frame. When they lower their hood, Niall feels his breath leave him.

Soft, brown eyes look across what would appear, to the man, to be an empty clearing. Niall can feel the warmth of his magic spread across it. It’s familiar. It’s welcoming.

“Niall Horan,” Liam nods to the nothingness before him, “welcome home.”

-x

Niall and Liam had different roles within the Circle. Where Niall was, by nature, a healer and a protector, Liam joined the outer ranks charged with defensive combat. Had the war not reached their doorstep, he likely would have become a general. But they endured their apprenticeship together, and when you spend so much time with someone you get to know what their magic looks like, just as you would know their face. When Niall recognizes his familiar form, he lets his own charms fall. Scully returns to his side, though she seems comfortable with Liam. Probably because she can sense that, in spite of the years that have passed, Niall trusts him completely. As soon as Niall appears before him, Liam breaks into a wide grin. Niall can’t help but do the same, though his mind races in a thousand directions.

“Liam,” he greets him. Liam steps forward and then pauses, noticing Harry. Harry who’s now staring up at him with wide, green eyes, so obviously Paemani that Niall curses himself for not thinking to disguise him before. He tries to nudge the prince off of him, giving him a meaningful look as he pulls himself to his feet. One that says shut up and let me do the talking . Harry only glances between him and Liam and sits up straighter, sniffling quietly. Niall turns back to Liam with a friendly smile.

“This is Harry. He helped me escape Vor Sonne.”

Liam raises his eyebrows, giving Harry a cursory glance before striding toward Niall and pulling him into a warm embrace. His arms are strong and firm, and Niall is starkly aware of how much he’s grown in the years they’ve been apart. But he still smells, somehow, of home. He feels like home. Here, in this wintery, barren land, a little piece of the world Niall was forced to leave behind.

“So that’s where you’ve been,” Liam whispers, holding him tight, “nobody knew. We looked for you.”

Niall shakes his head, gives Liam’s back a reassuring rub.

“I got rounded up,” he lowers his voice more, so Harry can’t hear, “they thought I was just another homeless mage. So does he. Don’t give anything away.”

Liam makes hums in understanding, pulls back to look Niall over.

“You haven’t changed too much, then.”

Niall laughs.

“Really? You look like an old man, now. Your whiskers will be grey soon.”

Liam scoffs, scratching at his chin for a moment. Niall notices, then, something strange in his eye. A sort of sadness. But before he can ask about it, Liam steps around him, offering a hand to Harry.

“I’m Liam. I knew Niall when we were young, we were raised in the same village. It’s good to meet you. Thank you for helping him.”

Niall can tell that Harry is afraid. And it’s likely that he should be. Niall is afraid for him, though he knows Liam himself would never harm the man. It’s what the others would do, should they recognize the prince... Harry glances at Niall before he takes Liam’s hand and pulls himself up. Niall offers him a little nod.

“Harry. And I’d say he more helped me,” he offers Liam a small smile. Liam shakes his hand firmly, grinning over at Niall.

“Some things never change, do they?”

Niall shrugs. Scully climbs up onto his shoulder when he leans to grab his back, pretending to sniff at his hood while watching Liam. Liam notices her when Niall straightens up, an expression of surprise crossing his face.

“Who’s this! Where’s Cleo?”

He leans in to look at Scully, who stares back. Liam furrows his brow.

“Cleo died, before I was sent away. Peacefully. Old age,” Niall explains simply, glancing between the man and his rat, “this is Scully, she’s been with me ever since.”

Liam frowns thoughtfully.

“She’s very... inquisitive,” he decides. Niall smiles fondly.

“She’s my best friend.”

-x

They follow Liam through the woods, to where the stronghold entrance lies. Harry casts nervous glances at Niall, and Niall reaches to squeeze his elbow, trying to offer him reassurance. However he, too, fears what the reaction of the Loyalists might be should they realize who he really is. It was never his intention to drag Harry into the depths of the organization that hopes to overthrow his father’s crown; he’d meant to abandon Harry long before they came across the stronghold. But he soon realizes that they would have found Harry either way as he attempted to travel the pass. Maybe it’s better, that Niall’s with him. Maybe they’ll think he’s simply a Paemani deserter come to work with their ranks, rather than an heir to the enemy throne. He prays that Harry is smart enough to pretend he believes in their ideals – even in front of Liam, Niall dares not whisper a word to his companion.

Liam leads them to a precarious scree slope, too steep even for snow to cling to its entirety. A large, angular boulder lies amongst the rubble, and Liam steps confidently toward it, barely taking notice of the rocks that scatter beneath his feet. Niall and Harry trudge carefully after. When they reach it, Liam taps it quickly. Niall doesn’t quite have time to catch the pattern he uses, but he feels something shift in the air. He recognizes it as the release of one of the many charms that must fortify the mountain – maybe even one of the charms they set off when they stepped foot into the valley. With a loud, agonizing groan, the boulder rolls back to reveal the entrance to a dark, dripping cavern. Niall feels a shiver run down his spine. Damp, cool air sighs out across their faces. It smells musty and stale. Liam grins at them, and nods for them to follow him inside.

Taking a deep breath, Niall steps after him, keeping his grip firm on Harry’s elbow. It’s probably more for his own benefit than Harry’s, at this point, as his chest tightens and the air around them falls unnervingly still. He flinches when the boulder rolls back into place behind them with a loud, gravely sound that echoes about the chamber. From somewhere deeper within, a light glows, reflecting off the water-slick stone. Liam murmurs something under his breath. A password, Niall assumes, looking slowly around. He moves closer to Harry, whose face has gone pallid. Scully tucks herself behind his neck. He tries to tell himself he should be used to the dark. Tries to tell himself this isn’t any different from the endless nights during the winters of Vor Sonne.

But it is. From here, there is no escape, and desperation hangs heavy overhead.

They reach the lit chamber, a small cavern with warm lanterns strung up the walls. Another man and a woman, neither of whom Niall recognizes, hunch over a map spread across a table, heads together, murmuring. When they hear the trio approach, they look up. Niall can immediately see the Eriu in both of them – the clear, blue eyes, dark brows, round cheeks. The woman, like him, has fair blonde hair, while the man’s is dark brown, sticking out in small tufts as if he’s been running his fingers through it. It isn’t uncommon, to run into people from his region of origin; many fled to Svearike when their own lands were taken decades ago, and he suspects most would have joined the resistance to prevent it happening in their new home.

“Niall,” the woman greets him warmly, stepping forward and reaching to clasp his hands. Her own are warm, calloused. He gives her a smile in return.

“Good to meet you,” he replies, not quite sure what’s expected of him. The woman laughs, giving his fingers a squeeze.

“I’m Laura, in charge of strategy. This is Eoghan,” she nods toward the man, who seems just as pleased to see Niall, moving to shake his hand.

“Head of communications here. We couldn’t believe it when Liam told us. Niall Horan! We thought we’d lost you.”

“Only lost to Vor Sonne,” he explains quietly. He tries to let their welcoming nature relax him, tries to rid himself of the strange unease that’s settled in his stomach. It was like Liam said – he’s home. This is where he belongs.

He shakes Eoghan’s hand firmly. Eoghan laughs, a starkly bright sound in the dim of the cavern.

“You escaped that frozen desert, ey! Well, won’t that be a story to tell. Among others.”

Niall grins, and nods.

“Yeah, suppose so.”

Liam smiles, somehow proud, and reaches to clap a hand on his shoulder.

“And you can hear it all over breakfast in the morning,” he tells Eoghan, turning to Niall as he continues, “let’s find you a bed, you’ve been sleeping out in the cold way too long.”

Niall ducks his head in assent, giving the two Loyalists another smile. It isn’t until they begin to move again that he remembers Harry, hovering behind him, stepping quickly after them. His gaze boring holes in the back of Niall’s head.  Despite what Niall whispered to Liam, he realizes no attempt was made to conceal his true identity from the prince. And now – Harry must have finally figured out that Niall is not the person he led him to believe. He longs to look back at him, to tell him everything will be okay, that it was never his intention to harm him... but he can’t risk drawing attention to his companion. He swallows thickly, his throat dry. Laura and Eoghan didn’t even look at Harry. Didn’t even acknowledge him. Neither did Liam. Niall reaches to try and grip Harry’s sleeve, to make sure he stays close where Niall might protect him, but Harry tugs his arm away. Something crumples painfully in Niall’s chest, and he drops his hand back to his side.

They follow Liam through a maze of tunnels, deeper into the mountain. Though Liam glances back at them every few minutes, they don’t speak much. It’s odd, because Liam was always so talkative when they were young. But he seems furtive here, eager to move them along. At length, they reach a room.

“This can be Harry’s,” Liam suggests, stopping next to the doorway. Niall slows, looks over at his companion. Harry gives Liam a cool smile and a nod. His eyes don’t meet Niall’s before he turns away, stepping into the warm candle light beyond. His bag hangs heavy off his back, still damp with snow.

“There a bath in there, water over the fire. I’ll come back in the morning to show you where the food is,” Liam tells him. Harry looks slowly around the room, shrugging his bag from his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he replies politely. He says no more.

“Goodnight,” Niall murmurs. Liam reaches to close the door.

Niall’s room is only a short walk away. It looks almost the same as Harry’s. Liam follows him inside, letting the door fall shut behind them. Niall lets out a slow breath, dropping his pack to the floor and quickly untying his jacket.

“Who is he really?” Liam asks. Niall isn’t startled by the question. He could feel it coming, feel it in the tension riddling Liam’s shoulders.

“I’m not sure,” he lies smoothly, throwing his jacket over a chair. He sits heavily, leaning to untie his boots. Scully jumps to the floor and hurries to inspect her new surroundings. “He was lost, somehow found my hut. So I took him in. I know he’s Paemani.”

He kicks his boots off, groaning and wiggling his toes in relief. It’s been so long since he’s had a proper roof over his head.

“He helped me escape,” he adds, finally levelling his gaze to Liam’s, “somehow, they banished him, and he helped me get back. Whoever he is, he isn’t our enemy.”

Liam watches him for a long moment, scratching the underside of his chin. Niall wiggles out of his warm, bearskin pants and pulls himself up, stepping to lay them by the fire. He’s still wearing his black, silk uniform beneath it all, the only form of underclothing allowed for those sent to Vor Sonne. They feel like a badge of honour, now.

“It’s hard to say who’s an enemy and who’s not, these days,” Liam muses. His voice is low. Niall looks over at him, searching his face, but his expression gives nothing away.

“What do you mean?” he asks. Liam looks up at him. Again, Niall catches a glimpse of the pain in his eyes.

“I’m not sure I should tell you,” Liam replies. When Niall moves to protest, he holds up a hand. “I’m not sure I should tell you here. We’ll talk tomorrow, or the next day. For now, have your rest.”

Though Niall is desperate for answers, he understands Liam’s concern. Even here, in this place of supposed safety, anyone might be listening. And he is exhausted. The prospect of a good nights’ sleep and a fresh, hot meal is almost unbelievable. And he wants to talk to Harry, quickly, before the prince jumps to any sordid conclusions.

“Fine,” he sighs, running his hands through his hair. Liam smiles a little, looking him over.

“I’ll bring you some proper clothes, too.”

Niall laughs, stepping to embrace his old friend once more. At least there’s one person he knows he can trust here – one person who’s bound to have his back, no matter what troubles befall them.

He waits for a long while after Liam leaves, just to make sure he’s truly gone. Then, he steps into the darkened hallway, feeling along the wall until he reaches Harry’s door. He doesn’t dare knock for fear someone might hear – instead, he pulls it open and slips through the crack, blinking to let his eyes adjust to the light beyond.

He doesn’t see Harry, at first, and his heart leaps into his throat. But the sound of sloshing water distracts him from his panic, and he steps further in to find Harry resting in the bath tub, Head leaning back against the rim, eyes closed.

“Harry,” he whispers, tip toeing across the floor. Harry jerks up, eyes wide, leaning like he might leap from the basin to attack, or run, or something. Were the situation not so serious, Niall might have laughed. Instead, he only lifts his palms defensively. “It’s only me.”

His shock subsiding, Harry’s face contorts into an expression of disdain.

“I don’t want to see you,” he whispers. Though the sound is soft, his tone is harsh. Niall frowns.

“Harry, I didn’t mean –”

“You think they don’t know , Niall? You think they didn’t realize as soon as they saw me? You brought me here. When they kill me, that blood’s on your hands.”

Harry sinks further into the bath, cheeks flushed with anger. Niall creeps closer, not wanting their conversation to carry any further than it has to in silence of the room.

“I didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t exactly run, could we?”

Harry glares steadily at him.

“We could have. We could have fought him off. If he hadn’t been you old friend, right?”

Niall opens his mouth to reply, but the words don’t come. Harry’s right, in a sense. But he’s also wrong. And Niall’s not sure he would have tried to fight, even if he hadn’t recognized the person who found them. Even now, Niall’s not sure he would have done anything differently. He’s where he wanted to be all along. He still has Harry with him. But Harry clearly doesn’t see it that way, and Niall can’t blame him. Not waiting for the witch to come up with a reply, Harry surges on.

“You made me believe you were just some... beggar on the street. But you’re not, are you? Niall Horan ? You’re not.” His words are bitter, his eyes piercing. Niall lowers his gaze, feeling his face heat. He never thought about what it would be like, to be confronted in his lie. He never thought it would be this hard. They were never destined to be friends, he and Harry. But now... he feels like he’s losing something. Lost it already, perhaps. He knows it was inevitable, but he can’t help blaming himself, for how he went about everything.

“You should have let me die.”

Harry sinks lower into the tub, resting his head back once more. His dark curls splay in the water. Niall realizes, suddenly, that he doesn’t have the talisman around his throat.

“Where is the emerald?” he asks. Harry frowns, squinting over at him.

“How do you know about the emerald?”

Niall shrugs, looking around the room. Harry’s things are piled in the corner, a small mound of furs. Harry lets out a slow breath when Niall offers no other reply.

“It’s safe. I’m not stupid, Niall.”

Niall frowns, turning his gaze back to the man. There’s more he wants to say, an apology stuck in his throat. He can’t explain his reasons. And he knows he’ll never convince Harry of his true intentions; in all honesty, he doesn’t know what those intentions are himself. He’d just gone along blindly, selfishly, never quite thinking the whole thing through. Hoping it would all work out for everyone in the end, somehow. Though he must have known, deep down, that eventually it would come to this. On one side stand the Loyalists, Niall’s people, fighting for the freedom of Svearike. On the other stands Harry. Harry, whom he should hate, whom he had every reason to despise. Harry who’s too damn kind and beautiful to belong to Paeman.

But Niall’s already made his choice. He made it a long time ago, when he joined the King’s Circle. When he pledged his undying loyalty to the man beneath the crown. When he sacrificed everything else to protect the future of his country.

“I wish things could be different,” he whispers. Harry just scoffs, closes his eyes again. Niall resists the urge to reach forward, to brush the strands of hair from his forehead. To hold onto him for just a little while longer. To save him one last time.

But whatever Niall feels for Harry, it doesn’t matter. He already has a King.

“Wear the emerald,” he murmurs, stepping back from the tub. Back from the temptation of Harry’s skin. “It’ll protect you.”

Harry does not reply. He does not move. Niall steps out the door and pulls it closed behind him, slips back down the hall. When he crawls into bed, Scully curls close beside him. She, alone, hears him whisper: “I’m sorry”.

He isn’t sure who it’s for.

-x

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To be continued…

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