Chapter Text
Robin
The Dancing Lights were one of the wonders of the world, Caldara’s prized attraction, and were lauded as the most stunning natural occurrence in existence—and yet, in all the years he’d grown up there, Robin had never once seen them.
As a child, he lived too far from their location, but even now, as an adult residing in the palace, right under where they emerged, he still hadn’t laid eyes on them, nor had he been able to attend the Solstice Festival that led up to their appearance. He’d read about them numerous times, seen the drawings in books, and heard accounts from people every year, but had never been able to see them. His father used to say he had worse luck than a fish in a barrel, but lately, Robin was starting to think he’d been cursed by the gods.
Or just cursed by one person: the doctor he technically worked under.
Dr. Farrow was a noble-born man who graduated top of his class from the Royal Medicine Academy. He was a bright mind whose quick thinking and impressive talent landed him the sought-after position as Palace Doctor, a career that was as unobtainable to Robin as it was desired.
Robin was stuck as apothecary, a position Farrow said was “practically clerical—anyone with half a mind could read the pre-prescribed recipes, gather ingredients, and deliver medicines to their rightful owner.”
“Given that you have at least seventy-five percent of a brain,” Farrow once told him, “You should be able to do it.”
Writing recipes and anything pertaining to patients or actual treatment, though, was the doctor’s domain.
However, every Solstice, Farrow’s opinion of him magically skyrocketed, and he left Robin with the task of his apothecary work and manning the doctor’s office in case any emergencies cropped up. In all the years Robin had worked there, there had never been an emergency, nor was there really a need for someone to be in the office at all times, but that didn’t stop Farrow from planting him in the cellar with the threat of what would happen if he shirked his responsibilities in favor of the Festival.
Last year, Robin had tried to creep up to the main floor to at least catch a glimpse of the lights through a window, but he hadn’t even made it down the hallway before Farrow returned to gather herbs of a recreational variety, and upon seeing him, chewed him out so bad he lost his holidays for the rest of the year.
Robin sighed as he packaged up the parcels for his deliveries, which contained medicines for the host of nobles in the palace town. Each package was the same size and unmarked except for where he’d scrawled the patient’s name, and the vial or herbs were carefully placed inside so they would not break. He finished with adorning them with a piece of purple-dyed twine wrapped around the outside and stamping the royal seal.
He didn’t dislike his job. In fact, it was quite the opposite. It allowed for time talking with all sorts of people, and he enjoyed walking in the forest to gather ingredients and clear his head. It was just, well, when he started, he’d hoped that Farrow might teach him some medicine too. He quickly realized that this was a misunderstanding on his part: Farrow didn’t even like that someone such as him was working in the Apothecary at all. If Robin hadn’t secured his position as he did, he was certain Farrow would have never considered him in the first place, much less kept him in his employ. But given that he was his student, Robin had wished he would at least…
Robin felt something unpleasant churn in his stomach, and he shook his head.
You’re being ungrateful.
He was happy to have this job. It was in the palace. It afforded him everything good he had in his life. And he’d been able to learn more than he’d expected from Farrow—usually from the sidelines when Farrow treated someone or, on rare occasions, performed a surgery. He had access to all of Farrow’s books (although he wasn’t sure the doctor knew that) and even wrote a few recipes himself (which the doctor definitely didn’t know about.) And of course, it allowed him to do what was important—
He frowned, pulling from his thoughts to look at the next item on Farrow’s list.
Most of his patients were repeats who had a daily or weekly dose of the same medicine, and he would make a steady supply of what was needed for common colds or minor injuries. When Farrow took a new patient or there was a one-time need for something, he would review their symptoms, write the recipe or indicate the number from the reference book, and give it to him.
This one, however, was new. It was for one of the nobles on the West District named Laurel Avarie, and the number was 543, which pertained to fever alleviation, but a specific enough variation that Robin would have to make it from scratch. If Robin remembered correctly, it called for a few ingredients that he had in the Royal Garden or drying inside, including mint.
He scanned the bookshelf for the correct volume, and gently nudged Lun from her place on top of the books. The snow moth bumped her head against Robin’s palm, expecting to be pet.
“Why is it you’re always where I need to be?” Robin asked. With one hand, he scooped her up. Lun was on the larger side for a snow moth, but she still fit in his cupped hands. Careful of her bent wing, he deposited her on the desk in the spot he’d made for her: a small bundle of half-nibbled soft clothes that were nestled between a few rarely used plague volumes. Lun fluttered her wings and her eyes blinked open, and Robin scratched under her chin until they closed again. He brushed off the moth dust left on his fingertips from petting her and returned to the books.
No sooner did he sit down, though, did Lun begin to chitter wildly, now completely alert, her sleepy lull evaporated. She got up and made a small jump over the table toward the door. Her broken wing stopped her from flying, but she was still able to get pretty far.
“Absolutely not,” Robin said, grabbing her. He walked over and shut the door to the hall. He’d had to burn elkweed earlier and was still airing it out. Even though it had been hours, he swore could still smell it. But Lun fought in his hands. “What has gotten into you?” he asked, lifting her up. “Last time you got out, you got into Mrs. Shyer’s dresses, and she threatened to cook you.” He plopped her back down on the nest of clothes, but she fluttered back onto his arm, chirping and nipping at his sleeve. “Hey!” Robin pinched the fluff at her neck, holding her in place while using his other hand to open the drawer to find her a treat. He handed the dried fruit to her. At first, she ignored it, still squeaking, but she eventually couldn’t resist, biting into it and settling back down in the nest; though she still appeared grumpy, her plumose antennae flat to her head and twitching. Robin sighed and finally opened the volume.
Recipe 543 did indeed contain mint, and he opened one of his notebooks, just to make sure.
:: Laurel Avarie, 43. Allergens: mint—Hives.
He could give her the medicine anyway, then treat the hives, or.
He glanced at the door leading to the doctor’s office. Farrow was likely still there since the Festival didn’t start for another few hours. It was rare for him to come into the Apothecary, but if he saw Robin messing around with experimental recipe’s he’d have his hide.
It’s…hardly experimental anymore.
Robin had been working on altering some of the recipes for a while now. He had dealt with replacing mint before and had been successful—the problem would be making sure the substitute reacted with the other ingredients correctly without also containing Avarie’s allergen.
He gathered the materials, and began.
After a few hours of fiddling, he had a result he was happy with. Luckily, he’d practiced enough substitutes on similar recipes before, so there was no large risk to this, unlike some he’d dealt with in the past. He finished wrapping the twine around the parcel and added it to the pile.
“Come on, Lun,” he said. She groggily leaped off the desk and onto his shoulder, taking a few steps to situate herself on his perch. He hoisted his bag onto his other shoulder and left, telling Farrow he was heading out for rounds.
“Be back on time,” Farrow said, staring at him with a stern expression over his glasses.
“I will.”
The Solstice was supposed to mark the beginning of Winter, but in Caldara, this was more of a formality. Eleven months of the year, the majority of the land was covered in snow and ice, and the mountains retained snow year round. While summer began halfway through the year, the snow didn’t begin to melt until winter was about to start up again. Only a few areas near the border saw green. A good summer consisted of light snowfall and, if the gods were kind, a lack of snow storms and ice rain.
Robin pulled his hood up as the cold breeze stung against his face. Lun helped, her fur radiating warmth on his neck as she nuzzled closer.
He started down the road, waving to the palace guards as he left through the main gate. It was a trek to get across the whole town, but by now he had a method of shortcuts to make his way through.
The first was for one of his regulars, a nobleman who suffered from joint pain, whose head servant, Krasin, was a joy to see.
“You sure you can’t come in for a cup of tea?” Krasin said as he took the parcel. “The old man’s fast asleep and will be for a while.”
“Not today,” Robin said. “Have to get my deliveries done earlier.”
“Ah,” he responded with a smile. “In time for the Festival?”
Robin nodded.
“Enjoy,” he said. “I’m taking Marcell. It’s supposed to be a good one this year.”
I bet, Robin thought with a twinge of sadness. He bid him farewell and left for the other houses.
Talking to the servants was what made the long slog through the snow bearable. While there were a few he didn’t quite click with, most he befriended and talked to in their doorways for a substantial amount of time. He also made a few passes around town—the royal garden yielded more herbs than they had any use for, and Robin liked to distribute what wouldn’t be missed and talk to people as he did. It was the highlight of his days—and also why he was constantly late.
Lun’s talons dug into his shoulder as he ran down the snow-covered slopes, half skidding as his boots caught ice. And he still had to drop off his other rounds.
Gods help me. He could see the sun setting in the sky. Farrow was going to be furious.
“Mrs. Arrington!” he called, finally slowing as he saw the older woman tending to her greenhouse. He struggled to a stop, heaving his breath. “I’m here!”
She held her basket against her hip, looking at him through the glass with an amused expression. “Late again, boy?”
“No,” he said with a smile, righting his hood and fixing his curls. She rolled her eyes and came closer to him.
“What do you have for me?”
Robin took out folded cloth from a pocket in his back containing a few mixed poultices and two vials of new ingredients.
“Is that…”
“Fireweed and Siren’s Salt.”
She examined the vials, holding them up to the light. “Never seen these in person,” she murmured. Then, her eyes darted to him. “Don’t suppose you have time to deliver today as well, do you? These old bones can’t make it through the snow as well.”
He hesitated, but she saw his face and sighed. “It’s fine,” she said. “Thank you for bringing it to me.”
“No,” he said. “No, I can.” It wasn’t like it was just to make others pay for his lack of time management. “I told you, I wasn’t late.”
Mrs. Arrington gave him a skeptical look but nodded. “I appreciate it.”
The palace and the surrounding grounds had a high concentration of nobles, but the outskirts, just like any city, had several people who could not afford the high prices of the Apothecary. Mrs. Arrington did her best, but she still had to pay for her supplies and her family. Every day, Robin walked past large jars of cures that would sit for years waiting for nobles to need them and tended to a garden of exotic specimens any layperson could never dream of affording. Some substances, like Fireweed and Siren’s Salt, couldn’t even be grown in Caldara and had to be traded. This meant they belonged exclusively to the Royal Family, regardless of if there was need for it.
And with whispers of war on the horizon, all materials that couldn’t be mined or grown in Caldara’s soil had skyrocketed in price. Rare ingredients that could have their supply cut off due to friction with other countries were all the more valuable—and expensive.
It was the least he could do to share some of the materials. As long as he was careful, no one would notice they were gone. He tried his best to make it to the outskirts and tend to people with what he’d manage to learn from Farrow or books, but when he was crunched on time, he handed it off to Mrs. Arrington.
As they crossed into the outskirts, the buildings grew more cramped together, and the temperature dropped. There was less wind, but there was also less insulation and heating, which certainly didn’t help people recover faster.
Fewer people knew him here. He had regulars, and he’d been more times than he could count, but people were less talkative. Less trusting. There wasn’t really a doctor, either. Mrs. Arrington treated the servants of the nobles, their families, travelers, and laypeople.
No one treated citizens in the outskirts.
Not unless Mrs. Arrington happened to make enough to give away instead of sell. With no doctor, there was no place for the sick to congregate. Robin usually had to ask around to see who was in need of help, and people rarely liked answering questions, but when they saw Robin wanted to help, he was able to get rid of all the materials he brought.
Today was no different, and as the sun set, Robin was able to make his way out, his anxiety spurring him on. Farrow was planning to leave for the Festival before sundown, and he was sure that time had passed. If he could just convince Mrs. Arrington’s husband to take him near the palace on his horse—
“Ah!”
He felt jabbing pain as his foot caught something in the snow and he landed face first in the ice, sending Lun a good foot into the snow.
“Lun!” he said, quickly digging her out. She shook her head and flicked her wings, spraying Robin with snow. Her body quaked, and he saw her wings tremble in the low light. He checked them, making sure that the one that broke years ago hadn’t gotten re-injured, but she was just cold. Snow moths were well adept to the elements of Caldara, but Robin had to admit he’d spoiled her a bit. Despite her coat being more than capable of withstanding cold, she preferred the heat of his lap.
“Oh, you’re fine,” he said, realizing she was just being dramatic.
He brushed it off of her and pulled his hood back up, allowing her to scramble up his arm. He shivered as the snow on her pelt melted against his neck.
What the hell had he tripped on in the middle of the road?
He scanned and found where his footsteps ended. He brushed the snow off to try and uncover what it was to move it from the road, then stilled.
Had he hit his head when he fell? That almost looked like…a hand.
The barely-covered fingers twitched in the snow.
Oh gods.
A shiver wracked his body, but he forced himself to shove more snow aside. The hand disappeared under a cloth, and he hesitated, his hand hovering over the mound lining the wall. He’d assumed it was snow. Of course it would be snow, how could it be…
His terror fought with his urgency. If the hand was moving, if he hadn’t imagined that, if it wasn’t just residual muscle spasms, then this person was alive, and he couldn’t let something as pesky as terror stop him from acting.
He pulled up the sheet and scrambled back.
The person’s skin was taught against their bones, pale and gray, and their clothing hung off of them loosely, covered in patterns of ice that crawled across their skin as well, spiking off of them like crystals, straight through the bone.
Ice sickness.
That was the thing about Caldara. It wasn’t just the cold one had to worry about. Certain ice crystals, deep in the heart of the mountains, had properties that normal ice didn’t. The sickness started with standard frostbite, but couldn’t be cured as in normal fashion. It would spread across the body until it found some opening and infected the host. It turned one’s blood to ice and their bones grew shards of crystals. The person only had a matter of days before their body split with ice and the coldness stole the warmth of their soul.
It was also extremely contagious.
Images flashed in Robin’s mind from the books he’d read. The drawings of distorted ice-logged corpses, frozen where they stood, isolated from anyone else.
It was rare. Usually an ailment only found in ice farmers or woodsmen deep in the heart of the mountains. The cure was just as rare as the disease. If it spread through the outskirts, there’s no telling how many deaths would occur as a result. They would have to quarantine the corpse—
“H…help me.”
They were alive? How?
Robin opened his mouth, but nothing but breath came out, smokey in the frigid air.
“Help me…” A woman’s voice, scratched and faint, emanated from the ice.
Robin’s heart beat fast in his chest. He should run. He should run, and tell someone, but they…would they help her? Without pay? With the risk of infection hanging over their heads?
“I’m not a…I can get a doctor.”
“Help me…please.” Her voice waned with a wail. A gust of wind blew across Robin’s face, and he briefly wondered if that was enough for the crystals to infect him, too.
Had he touched her hand? Or merely the snow surrounding it? He couldn’t really remember.
“Please help me…”
“Okay,” he said, his voice catching. The cold was chilling his bones. Was it because he was sitting in the snow, or was it because of the disease already taking hold? “I will. I’ll help you. Just…” He swallowed.
::Brinicle’s Disease—colloquially known as Ice Sickness. Level 4 contagion. Suggested course of action: permanent quarantine until the host is completely ice. Torch remains.
He shook his head. There was more. There was a cure. Someone had discovered a cure. He just…had to remember.
Agonizing pain until the numbness takes you.
Blood hardening until the host can no longer form clear words.
The splitting of bone can be heard as the crystals splice—
Robin bit the inside of his tongue until he felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, shocking him out of the frozen terror he was trapped in.
Being near heat could slow the process. He knew that much. He tore off his cloak, putting it over the woman’s body.
“It’s all right,” he said again. “It’s going to be okay.”
He wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself.
He dug the flamestone from his pocket and carefully placed it in her hand without touching her. She hissed at the added warmth, but he saw it melt a little of the ice—just for a moment, before the crystal returned with crackling force.
“I-I’ll be back,” he said. “I promise.”
With that, he tore back down the alley.
Once again, he found Mrs. Arrington in her greenhouse, and she balked at his state, seeing him shivering and hiding Lun under his shirt.
“I-I need the Fireweed back.” His teeth clattered and he held his sides tight. Is that the sickness starting? Or is it just the snow?
“Callide’s blessings, boy, what happened to you?” She moved to the door, and he waved his hands.
“S-stay in the greenhouse,” he said. “I think.” He swallowed. “I think I found someone with Ice Sickness.”
Her eyes widened, and he could see her own fear reflected in her face. She cursed, a whisper under her breath he couldn’t make out through the glass.
“The royal books said something. Something with Fireweed, but I can’t remember. Fireweed and Aspen’s bark and…and…” He pressed his palms to his eyes. “One of the Augustine salts—”
“Western or Northern?”
“Northern,” he said. “Yes. And…and…” Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I remember? It was simple, just rare, but we have Fireweed, why can’t you remember? Anyone else would be able to—
He flinched as Lun nipped the flesh of his stomach. “Ow!”
“Are you okay?” Mrs. Arrington asked.
Robin nodded.
“I’ll look in some of my books. Just stay there.”
A short while later, she returned to the greenhouse.
“The recipe calls for lloprost,” she said. “That’s not something I have lying around.”
Robin’s teeth dug into his lip. It was expensive. They had it in the castle, but he’d never make it there in time, and if he was infected… “Try…try mixing St. Aleta’s Wort and cardamoms,” he said. “Two to one.”
It was something he’d theorized using as a substitute. He hadn’t been able to test it yet, though.
Better now than never.
Eventually, she came and set the vial outside and closed the door to the greenhouse again. But she lingered near the door.
“We should call the guard,” she said. “There’s a chance you aren’t infected yet,” she said. “They can help whoever it is.”
“You know what they’ll do.”
“The same thing they’ll do to you if you get infected for the sake of a stranger.”
The silence hung between them, but he stepped forward, cold fingers curling around the vial. “Thank you,” he said.
“If that works,” she said. “And that’s a big if,” she said. “Take some yourself.”
He nodded and crept back away from the door.
The woman was huddled in his cloak, her back against the wall. She clutched the flamestone, and Robin could see its faint glow illuminating her gaunt features.
She flinched when she saw him approach, a horrible grating sound from the crystals striking his ears.
He slowly knelt next to her.
“Hey,” he said, and immediately lamented his awkwardness. Sylvan always said he was horrible talking to people if he couldn’t be casual.
Sylvan.
Would he see him again? And what about C—
He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time for that.
“I think this will help,” he said. “I need you to tilt back your head and open your mouth.”
She didn’t respond, simply looking down at the stone. She was still breathing, though. He could see that much. He hesitated, but took off his turtleneck. The cold stung his body and he was wracked with shivers, the only protection from the elements now being flimsy bandages over his arms and chest. Lun dove for his hair, taking refuge under his curls.
“I’m going to touch you,” he said. And hope this works.
Wrapping the shirt around his hand, he tilted back her head and realized her jaw was completely frozen shut, the ice shards protruding through her cheeks where teeth would be.
Callide help me, he prayed, but drew closer. Her eyes were wide open, and he could see the patterns of ice across them. He held his breath, tipping the contents of the vial into her eye.
She didn’t even blink, just looking up as it splashed on her.
Gods. He shook in the cold, drawing back. Was that enough?
She didn’t move, but the liquid soon disappeared from her face, sinking in.
Robin swallowed.
“Come on, Lun.”
She didn’t budge from her place and the cold flared into him with a gust of wind, and he almost sobbed from the sheer temperature. He grabbed her, her hooked claws digging into his flesh.
He held her still like he used to bottle feed her.
“You need this,” he said. “I’ll take it too. Please.”
She struggled against his hand and he drank it first, angling the vial back. It tasted horrid, but he clenched his jaw and swallowed.
“See?”
Lun fluttered against him, but stilled enough. She opened the four mandibles of her mouth, and let him trickle the drops inside. She squeaked at the taste, arms wiping her face repeatedly, then quickly clambered back up his arm.
Crack!
He glanced back at the woman and saw the ice shards cracking off of her. He pushed back in the snow. The shards were clattered to the ground at an alarming pace. There were gruesome holes where the ice had torn skin, but she would be okay. It hadn’t broken through anywhere sensitive yet.
“Hah.” Robin breathed out, a grin spreading across his tear-frozen cheeks. It worked. It actually worked.
The woman blinked back to him, recognition in her eyes once more. Her skin was returning to a more normal color. She stood abruptly.
“W-woah!” Robin said, scrambling to his feet. “You should take it easy. I’ll bring you back some food and some star tea—”
But before he could get her attention, she’d disappeared down the alleyway.
Robin stared into the darkness after her, shivering.
Mrs. Arrington looked down at him while he sat in her chair, wrapped in one of her son’s old coats. She was wearing gloves and her scarf pulled over his mouth as she examined his skin and his eyes. The fireplace crackled in the background.
“That was foolish.”
He didn’t answer. There wasn’t really anything he could retort to.
“…But you’re fine, boy.”
“Are you sure?” he said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t go back to the castle yet—”
“I’m sure,” she said. She hesitated. “It’s quite…swift. If you had it, you would already be ice.”
Oh.
“And so would Lun,” she said, taking off her glove and petting the moth’s head, the antennae flattening against her palm. “She would have turned even quicker as small as she is. You’re okay.”
Robin breathed out, half in relief, half just to feel the warmth against his fingertips.
“Although you’re certainly late now,” she said.
He stiffened again. Gods.
“I’ll get Allen to ride you to the gates,” she said. “But you’ll likely be sick from your idiotic idea to take off all your bloody clothes at the start of winter.”
He nervously tucked his hair back. “…Thank you,” he said.
She huffed and tossed him another firestone. “Get going before you’re out of a job.”
***
Despite the cold and his exposure to the elements, Robin felt increasingly hot as he walked through palace corridors. It was already night when he finally made it through the gates. He could hear the sounds from the festival music and cheers, smell the fire and the food. The lights would appear at any moment.
Farrow was going to be astronomically angry with him, but for some reason, the terror that normally accompanied that thought felt very distant.
Everything felt very distant. Perhaps it was for the best he wasn’t going to the Festival. He put his hand against the wall to steady himself, but a nauseating heat spread through his chest.
The room spun. He vaguely heard Lun chirp, but that, too, sounded faraway. The only thing tethering his mind was the heat.
It felt like he was on fire.
He swayed and lost his footing, and everything went black.