Work Text:
The forest had gone quiet in the way that meant danger.
Snow hung thick on the branches overhead, bending them low, weighing the world down into stillness. Even the wind had softened, reduced to a thin breath that slid through the trees and sank its teeth into exposed skin. Aurora pulled her cloak tighter around herself, fingers numb, breath fogging white in front of her face.
She didn’t say anything. She hadn’t for a while.
Mulan noticed anyway.
They had been walking since dawn, boots crunching through untouched snow, their path marked only by the faint line of their own footprints. The fairy-tale world was vast and indifferent, winter stretching farther than Aurora had expected, farther than hope felt comfortable reaching. Her dress—once suitable for palace halls and sunlit glades—was wholly inadequate out here. Layers had been scavenged where they could find them, but silk was still silk, and cold did not care how royal it was.
Mulan moved ahead of her by a few steps, spear balanced easily in her grip, eyes constantly scanning. She walked like someone who had learned long ago how to disappear into harsh places—measured strides, careful breathing, every sense alert. Snow clung to the hem of her trousers, to the edges of her boots, but she didn’t slow.
Aurora struggled to keep pace.
Her legs ached, heavy and sluggish, the cold settling deep into her joints. Each breath burned. She focused on placing one foot in front of the other, on not stumbling, on not drawing attention to how tired she was. Complaining wouldn’t help. She knew that. Still, her hands trembled when she adjusted her cloak, and the effort it took not to shiver felt enormous.
“You’re slowing,” Mulan said quietly, not unkind.
“I’m fine,” Aurora replied at once. Too quickly. She forced a smile that Mulan didn’t quite see. “Just… admiring the scenery.”
Mulan glanced back then, eyes sharp, taking in the too-thin cloak, the flushed cheeks, the faint stiffness in Aurora’s movements. She said nothing more, only adjusted her pace—slower now, subtly so—and continued on.
They had learned each other’s rhythms over days like this. Mulan knew when Aurora was pushing past her limits, Aurora knew when Mulan was worried but choosing silence. It was a fragile balance, held together by necessity and trust, and the quiet understanding that neither of them could afford to break.
The light was fading faster than it should have.
Aurora noticed it first, the way the snow seemed to deepen to blue, the shadows stretching long and sharp between the trees. The sun dipped behind the mountains with alarming speed, as though the world itself was eager to surrender to night.
“Mulan?” she asked softly.
Mulan had already stopped. She frowned at the sky, then at the forest ahead, calculating. Nightfall in winter was dangerous enough. Nightfall without shelter was worse.
“We won’t make another village before dark,” she said, “And we can’t keep moving once the temperature drops.”
Aurora swallowed. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been relying on the idea of a fire, a roof—anything solid waiting ahead of them. The forest offered nothing but snow and silence.
“I’m sorry,” Aurora murmured, though she wasn’t entirely sure why.
“It’s not your fault.” Mulan shook her head.
She turned, scanning the trees again, searching for any sign of refuge—a cave, a ruined cottage, something abandoned and forgotten that might still stand between them and the cold. Snow creaked faintly as the temperature dropped, the sound sharp in the stillness.
Aurora hugged herself, trying to keep what little warmth she had left. The night was coming too fast, and the road had given them nothing.
They pressed on, each step slower than the last, crunching through the deepening snow, eyes scanning desperately for any sign of refuge. Shadows stretched long and sharp between the trees, and the cold gnawed deeper into their bones with every passing moment. Just when hope seemed to waver, a faint shape emerged ahead.
It wasn’t much—barely more than a suggestion of shelter tucked into the hillside, half-swallowed by snow and time. Stone walls leaned inward where the roof had collapsed long ago, leaving a jagged opening that yawned toward the sky. Snow had drifted inside, smoothing the floor into an uneven white, but the back wall was intact, curved and solid, offering some protection from the wind.
Mulan stopped at the entrance, studying it in silence.
Aurora hovered a step behind her, peering past her shoulder. Her breath came a little faster now, hope and dread tangled together.
“Is it…?” she began, then stopped, unsure how to finish the question.
“It’ll block the wind,” Mulan said. She crouched, brushing snow aside with her glove, checking the ground for signs of animals, for tracks too fresh or too large. Satisfied, she nodded once. “It’s safe enough for the night.”
Safe enough. Aurora let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Inside, the cold felt sharper somehow—trapped rather than dispersed—but the wind was gone, and that alone felt like mercy. Mulan moved quickly, efficiently, setting their packs down against the back wall. She gathered what little dry material she could find—scraps of old wood, brittle and dark with moisture—and struck a spark.
The fire took effort and compromise. The wood they gathered was damp and reluctant, snapping more smoke than flame, and when it finally caught, it did so weakly—a thin, stubborn thing that threw more shadow than heat. Mulan fed it carefully, rationing what little fuel they had, already calculating how long it could be kept alive.
Aurora crouched near it, hands outstretched. They were shaking. Not violently, not yet—but enough that Mulan noticed immediately.
She didn’t comment. She simply shifted closer, angling her body to block the draft Aurora hadn’t even realized was reaching her. Practical. Subtle. The kind of thing Mulan had always done without thinking.
The cold pressed in anyway. It seeped through stone and cloth alike, creeping up from the ground, stealing warmth faster than the fire could replace it. Aurora’s breath fogged the air in slow, careful puffs, like she was trying not to use too much of it at once.
Mulan watched her fingers go pale, then pink, then pale again.
“This isn’t enough,” she said quietly—not accusing the fire, not anyone. Just stating fact.
Aurora nodded.
“I know.”
Another pause. Wind sighed outside the shelter, rattling something loose in the roof. The fire crackled weakly.
“Body heat will help,” Mulan exhaled, decision already made.
Aurora looked at her then, startled—not by the suggestion itself, but by how simply it was said. No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just another tactic, weighed and chosen.
“Oh,” Aurora said. Then, after a beat, “Yes. Of course.”
Neither of them called it anything else.
They sat back to back at first, shoulders brushing through layers of fabric. It helped, a little—enough to take the edge off the worst of the cold, enough that Aurora’s shivering slowed—but it wasn’t sufficient. The chill crept in along her spine, settled in the hollow between her shoulder blades.
Mulan felt it too. The way Aurora kept inching closer without quite realizing it. The way her breathing went shallow again.
After a minute, Mulan shifted.
She turned, adjusted her cloak, opened it just enough to make space. The movement was deliberate, careful not to startle.
“Come here,” she said—not an order, not a plea. An offer.
Aurora hesitated.
Not long. Just long enough to register the weight of it—closeness, warmth, the intimacy of sharing space like this. Then she moved, slow and uncertain, and settled against Mulan’s side.
Mulan wrapped the cloak around them both, tucking it tight, sealing them into a pocket of shared heat. Aurora exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath for hours.
The contrast was immediate. Mulan was solid, steady—a constant warmth that didn’t flicker or fade like the fire did. Aurora could feel her through layers of wool and leather—the rise and fall of her chest, the quiet rhythm of her breathing.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Aurora listened to the sounds of survival—the soft crackle of the fire, the wind scraping uselessly at stone, Mulan’s breath close to her ear. The cold was still there, but it had been pushed back now, held at bay by the simple fact of another person being near.
“I’m sorry,” Aurora said suddenly, the words slipping out before she could stop them, “I keep slowing us down.”
Mulan’s arm tightened—not enough to trap her, just enough to be felt.
“You’re not.”
“I–” Aurora faltered, “I don’t do well with the cold.”
“That’s not a failing,” Mulan said, gently but firmly, “It’s weather.”
Aurora laughed weakly at that, the sound muffled against Mulan’s shoulder. She relaxed a fraction more, weight settling fully now. Her hands curled into the fabric of Mulan’s sleeve without thinking.
Another silence. This one warmer.
“I’m scared,” Aurora admitted, voice barely above the fire’s whisper, “Of falling asleep like this.”
Mulan tilted her head, resting it lightly against Aurora’s.
“You won’t.”
Aurora didn’t ask how she could be so sure.
The night dragged on, the wind whistling against their shelter. The fire had burned itself down to embers, its light reduced to a dull orange pulse against the stone. The cold lingered at the edges of their shelter, pressing in where it could, but it no longer felt like an immediate threat. Mulan stayed alert anyway, eyes half-lidded, attention tuned outward, listening for anything that didn’t belong to the night.
Aurora stirred beside her.
“Are you still awake?” she asked softly, voice barely more than breath.
“Yes,” Mulan said.
A pause. Then, quieter still.
“Good.”
Mulan didn’t comment on the relief threaded through the word.
They stayed like that for a moment, Aurora warm and solid against her side, her breathing slow but not yet even. Mulan could feel it—sleep hovering close, but not settling. Too dangerous to let it, not yet.
“I don’t like sleeping when it’s this cold,” Aurora said after a while, “It feels like… if I stop paying attention, something will take advantage of it.”
Mulan hummed softly, acknowledging the truth in that without contradicting it.
Aurora shifted slightly, adjusting her position, careful not to break the shared warmth.
“When I woke up,” she said, and then stopped. Started again. “After the spell, I mean. Everything felt like that. Like the world had kept going without me, and I’d been left behind.”
Mulan angled her head, listening.
“I wasn’t alone,” Aurora continued, as if anticipating the objection, “Not really. The fairies were there. People were kind. But it was still—”
She searched for the word.
“Disorienting. Like waking up somewhere unfamiliar and being told it was home.”
Mulan thought of battlefields after the fighting ended. Of silence where there should have been noise. She said nothing.
Aurora exhaled slowly.
“I think that’s why this journey feels so strange. I’m used to being protected. Sheltered. Even asleep, I was… safe.” Her fingers curled slightly against Mulan’s sleeve. “Walking through the world like this feels very new.”
“You’re doing well,” Mulan said.
Aurora smiled faintly at that.
“You always say things like that.”
“Because they’re true.”
Another small silence settled between them, comfortable enough to hold.
“Phillip used to talk about traveling,” Aurora said eventually. She didn’t look up, didn’t pull away. The name wasn’t heavy. It was careful. “Not grand adventures. Just… seeing places. Learning what people were like outside the court.”
Mulan waited.
“I don’t know where he is now,” Aurora went on, “Or if he’s thinking of me at all. But I think—”
She hesitated. Unlike Philip’s name, the pause felt like a brick lodged in both of their chests.
“I think I like the idea of believing there’s something waiting for me at the end of this. Someone.”
There was no edge to it. No challenge. Mulan absorbed it and nodded once.
“Hope can be useful,” she said. “It keeps you moving.”
Aurora tilted her head slightly, as if she’d expected more. Then she smiled again, softer this time.
“You don’t mind?”
“Why would I?” Mulan asked.
Aurora considered that, then relaxed fully against her.
“You’re very steady,” she said. “It helps.”
Mulan almost laughed at that. Almost.
Instead, she stared out into the dark beyond the ruined shelter, eyes tracing shadows that weren’t threats.
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“With traveling?” Aurora asked.
“With waiting,” Mulan replied.
Aurora shifted, enough to look at her properly now.
“You don’t talk about yourself very much.”
“There’s not much to say.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Mulan’s jaw tightened—not defensively, but reflexively.
“My life before this was… structured. There was always a next task. A next duty. You didn’t stop to think about whether you wanted it,” she said carefully.
“And now?” Aurora asked.
“Now,” Mulan said slowly, “there’s time.”
The word seemed to hang there, unfamiliar.
“Is that frightening?” Aurora studied her face in the low light.
Mulan thought about it. About nights spent standing watch while others slept. About being useful because she never needed rest.
“Sometimes,” she admitted.
Aurora didn’t comment. She simply reached out, fingers brushing against Mulan’s hand where it rested between them. The touch was tentative at first, a question.
Mulan stiffened instinctively, the urge to pull away sharp and immediate.
Aurora felt it.
She didn’t let go.
Her fingers closed gently, not trapping, just holding.
“You don’t have to,” she said softly, “I just thought… we could keep each other awake. Together.”
The choice settled between them, quiet and unmistakable.
Mulan exhaled, long and slow, and let her hand stay.
Aurora’s thumb brushed once over her knuckles, absent, grounding.
“You always take care of everyone else,” she murmured, “It’s all right if someone keeps watch for you, too.”
Mulan didn’t trust her voice for a moment.
When she finally spoke, it was barely audible.
“Just for tonight.”
Aurora smiled, content.
“Just for tonight.”
They stayed like that, hand in hand, listening to the world breathe around them. The cold never fully left, but it no longer felt endless.
♡
At some point, sitting stopped being enough.
Mulan felt it first—not as a thought, but as a shift in Aurora’s weight, the subtle sag of exhaustion finally winning out over caution. Aurora’s head dipped, resting briefly against Mulan’s shoulder, then lifted again as if she’d startled herself.
“I think,” Aurora murmured, embarrassed but honest, “I might fall over if I stay upright much longer.”
Mulan considered the space, the floor, the way the cold still crept upward from stone. She adjusted their cloak, loosening it from its careful tuck.
“Then we should lie down,” she said, “Together.”
Aurora didn’t argue.
They eased themselves onto the ground, movements slow and coordinated, as if they’d done this before. Mulan settled on her side first, bracing herself, one arm bent to make space. Aurora followed, curling instinctively into the offered warmth, her back fitting neatly against Mulan’s chest.
It felt… right. Not surprising. Like a solution that had always been waiting.
Mulan adjusted without thinking, arm coming around Aurora’s waist, hand resting securely at her side. Aurora’s knees tucked in, drawing closer, chasing heat. Her breath puffed softly against Mulan’s collarbone, each exhale a ghost of warmth.
The cold lingered anyway. Aurora’s hair, loose from its braid, brushed against Mulan’s chin, the ends already stiffening slightly with frost where it had touched the air.
Mulan noticed immediately.
She leaned down, careful, and breathed warmth into it, slow and steady. The frost melted, strand by strand, darkening back to gold beneath her breath. She did it again when the cold returned, patient, deliberate.
Aurora shifted faintly.
“You don’t have to do that,” she whispered, though she didn’t pull away.
“I don’t mind,” Mulan said.
The words slipped out before she’d weighed them.
Aurora went still. Then she tilted her head back just enough to look up at her, eyes soft in the dim light.
“I do,” she said quietly. “I mind very much.”
Something tightened between them.
Aurora’s gaze lingered, tracing the line of Mulan’s face, close enough now that their breaths mingled. For a moment—just a moment—it felt inevitable. Aurora lifted her chin. Mulan’s breath caught.
She froze.
Not out of fear. Out of knowing.
The line was there, thin and unmistakable, drawn not by duty or propriety but by care. Mulan held still, giving Aurora time to choose.
Aurora did.
She didn’t close the distance.
Instead, she rested her forehead gently against Mulan’s, the contact warm and sure. Their temples pressed together, breaths syncing without effort. Mulan closed her eyes.
She lowered her head just enough to brush a kiss into Aurora’s hair, light as falling snow.
Aurora exhaled, long and content, and relaxed fully into her arms.
Outside, the night passed them by.
♡
Mulan woke before the sun.
She always did.
The cold had softened its grip overnight, retreating just enough to make the air breathable. Pale winter light filtered through the broken roof, catching on snow and stone alike. The fire was long dead, its embers gray and spent.
Aurora slept on.
Her face was relaxed in a way Mulan hadn’t seen before—unguarded, unburdened. One hand rested lightly against Mulan’s chest, fingers curled as if holding onto something she trusted not to disappear.
Mulan didn’t move.
She watched the slow rise and fall of Aurora’s breath, the faint warmth that still lingered between them. This was usually the moment she slipped away—quietly, efficiently, before anyone could wake and see her hesitate.
She thought about doing it now.
She didn’t.
Aurora stirred instead, lashes fluttering as consciousness returned. She blinked once, then looked up, finding Mulan’s gaze already on her.
“Oh,” she said softly.
Mulan didn’t look away.
For a second, neither of them spoke. Then Aurora smiled—small, knowing. Not surprised. Not shy. Just present.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” Mulan replied.
Nothing else needed saying.
They laid there a little longer, sharing the light, the warmth that remained. The last night wasn’t dismissed or explained away. It simply existed between them, solid and unspoken.
When they finally moved, it was together.
They packed in practiced silence.
Supplies were lighter than they’d been the night before, but both of them moved with more ease. Rest had done its work. The cold still lingered, but it no longer felt like an enemy waiting to strike.
Aurora adjusted her cloak, hands steadier now.
“I’ll keep heading east,” she said, “Toward the valley. That’s where I was told Phillip might be.”
Mulan nodded.
“I know the terrain. I can get you closer before turning south.”
Aurora glanced at her, something bright flickering behind her eyes.
“I’d like that.”
They shouldered their packs and stepped back into the snow. The world stretched out before them, white and quiet, untouched.
Before they started walking, Aurora reached out, fingers brushing Mulan’s wrist. The touch lingered, deliberate.
“Thank you,” she said, “For… staying.”
Mulan met her gaze, steady and warm.
“Of course.”
Aurora smiled, then turned and started ahead, boots crunching softly through the snow.
Mulan watched her go for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then she followed.
For now.