Archive of Our Own

Generally, investigating disappearances in a village on the western border is not the duty of princes and knights.

These, however, are special circumstances.

The village of Bristol falls under the jurisdiction of Rainfell. Seeing as Ser Timothy will become Lord of Rainfell this coming winter and has never been west before, it seems an opportunity to accomplish three things.

One: acquire a clearer picture of the land and the people he is to rule.

Two: establish trust with his future subjects. Rumors travel fast, and Ser Timothy wishes to be a lord whom his people feel they can rely on.

Three: curb the matter before it spreads to the other villages, because these things always do.

Ser Timothy is the prince’s sworn knight, but he has been training Ser Cassandra as his replacement for months.

Ser Cassandra already outclasses him in swordsmanship, so the training has mainly consisted of teaching her to adapt to the many quirks of Prince Kon’s personality.

She has done wonderfully thus far. Despite Prince Kon finding her quiet disposition somewhat off-putting, Ser Timothy has no doubt they’ll learn to get along without him.

Ser Cassandra will protect his prince well.

Ser Timothy takes leave for the west. He expects Kon and his soon-to-be sworn lady knight to treat his absence as a trial run for when he officially leaves for Rainfell.

Kon, however, balks at the idea of Ser Timothy setting out alone and, by princely decree, invites himself along. Ser Timothy has sworn fealty to the House of El. Despite his frustration, he abides by his prince’s wishes.

So, Ser Timothy and Prince Kon set out for Bristol together.

Kon has absolutely no qualms with Tim becoming Lord of Rainfell. Truly.

Rainfell is a prestigious holding, and Tim has been an exceptional knight. The accolades Tim receives are well earned. General Wayne is obviously proud of him, even if the man has the emotional transparency of a siege fortification.

Kon is happy for him. Proud, too.

He just doesn’t understand why Tim has to live at Rainfell, five hundred miles away from Castle Metropolis.

Five hundred miles away from Kon.

Tim asks Kon if he wants him to stay. He fixes Kon with those bright eyes whose color always reminds Kon of a warm, sunny day. Kon knows that if he says yes, Tim will do it. He will turn down the titles and the land, and he will stay with him.

And…

Kon remembers meeting the skinny, raven-haired boy reading a book on aqueducts in the gardens of Keep Wayne all those years ago. He remembers how those eyes lit up when Tim talked about becoming a knight and, someday, a noble lord.

Kon cannot do it. He cannot look Tim in the eyes and ask him to stay small for him.

Tim assures Kon that he can visit, that they can write letters, and even begins training Cassandra as his replacement. Cassandra is quiet, but sweet and funny when she has something to say. She is an exceptional knight and will make a great sworn protector for someone.

Just not Kon. Because Kon doesn’t want another knight. He wants Tim.

A gust of wind tumbles across the road, sending a scatter of yellow leaves skittering beneath the horses’ hooves. Around them, the forest shines red and gold beneath the afternoon sun. Kon twists in his saddle. Tim rides slightly behind Kon.

Tim is clad head to toe in full plate. His armor is sleek and dark, forged in the style of the Order of Robins. Like the other knights of the order, the base of his armor is black, but his chestplate marks him out at once: a deep red and green, polished to a muted gleam, edged with fine gold runes meant to dispel magical attacks.

His helmet is shaped in the likeness of a bird, sharp and elegant, with a beaked visor that gives him a slightly predatory silhouette. From his shoulders falls a red cape, cut and layered to evoke the spread of bird wings when it stirs behind him. Over his heart, fastened to the breast of his armor, rests a metal insignia marking him as the prince’s sworn knight.

Kon’s knight.

The overall effect is striking: disciplined, martial, and beautiful.

Kon bats away that last thought. Looking at Tim lately gives him an odd feeling.

“What?” asks Tim.

“Nothing,” says Kon.

“You’re staring.”

“Am not.”

“Kon, you’re fully turned around in your saddle.”

Kon turns back and tugs on his horse’s reins. The horse slows down and walks side by side with Tim’s mount.

“I simply wanted to ensure you had not fallen!” he says primly.

It has happened before.

Two years prior, there was an attempt on Kon’s life. Tim spent three weeks afterward running himself ragged, trying to discover who was responsible and make sure it could never happen again.

He never found them.

By the end of the third week, Tim was so exhausted that he went to mount his horse, missed the stirrup entirely, and face-planted into the dirt before half the courtyard.

Kon laughed at him after he was sure Tim was okay.

Tim’s eye roll is practically audible. “That happens one time, and you have not let it go!”

“It happened twice, actually.”

“No, it did not!”

“You fell off your horse during last season’s tourney!”

“That does not count!”

It does, and it doesn’t.

The second time happened after Tim and Kon drank far too much wine the night before Tim entered the lists. He was meant to joust Ser Damian that morning, but Tim was horribly hungover.

It still took three rounds before Damian finally managed to unseat him.

Kon brings up the event as often as possible because of how spectacularly annoyed it makes Tim.

What Kon fails to mention is that he was just as hungover.

He remembers Tim hitting the dirt, lying there for a moment with an expression caught somewhere between bafflement and outrage.

Kon laughed so hard he threw up over the side of the Crown’s box seats.

“It so does count, my dear knight. Alas, even the noble Ser Timothy Drake eats dirt sometimes.”

“Oh, shut it.”

Tim shoves him, but there’s no real spite behind it. Tim peers at Kon strangely, and once more Kon is trapped in those eyes. There it is again. That strange little flutter in Kon’s stomach. His cheeks ache, and he can’t help but smile…

Gods! What is he doing?

Kon clears his throat and tears his eyes away from Tim. “So, you’ve told me the situation, but I have yet to hear your theories.”

Tim doesn’t respond. His chin rests on his fist. He’s thinking.

“You surely have theories.”

“Some. They’re all conjecture at the moment.”

Kon smiles. “Indulge me.”

Tim adjusts the reins in one hand. He gestures with his free hand as he speaks. “The reports don’t agree on what’s actually happening.”

“People are disappearing.”

“Yes. And then apparently they aren’t.” Tim sighs. “First possibility: the disappearances are real, but the rest of it isn’t. Take the miller. His wife says he went missing for two days. Then three separate witnesses see him back at the mill. He speaks to customers, makes deliveries, and argues with someone over the price of flour. Completely ordinary.”

“So he came back.”

“According to them.”

“But?”

“His wife insists he came back wrong.”

Kon’s smile fades. “So you think she’s confused?”

Tim shrugs. “People are frequently confused,” he says. “People change. Sometimes the people closest to them have the hardest time accepting it. It’s easier to say something happened to him than admit perhaps you didn’t know him as well as you thought.”

“That’s pretty sad.”

“It is. But there are too many similar accounts in too short a period for me to dismiss them,” he explains. “Second possibility: they are disappearing, and something happens to them while they’re gone.”

“A curse?”

“Possibly. Enchantment. Possession. illness. Coercion.”

“Illness doesn’t usually make someone act differently.”

Tim looks over. “No, but a blow to the head can.”

Kon makes a face. “Less exciting than a curse.”

“Most truths are.”

“Third?” Kon asks.

“They’re being replaced.”

Kon frowns. “It does sound like changelings.”

“It’s likely. It would explain why they remember their families and their work but still behave differently. There have been many fae encounters in the west. Not lately, but there’s precedent for it.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t put too much weight on the theory yet.”

“Why?”

“The fair folk fit the problem almost too well. It could be that is what someone wants us to believe.”

Kon stares at him. “Why would anyone even do that?”

“Now you understand why I said the theories are conjecture.”

“I think you make the matter more complicated than it is.”

“I am keeping our possibilities open. If we decide beforehand that the fair folk are responsible, we may overlook anything that tells us otherwise.”

The road curves between two enormous oaks, their branches nearly bare. Beyond them, harvested fields stretch toward distant hills beneath a pale blue sky. Bundles of cut wheat stand abandoned in neat rows, waiting to be collected before the first frost.

“Well, we’d better get a move on,” says Kon.

“We will be there in two weeks. The next town should only be a few hours away, though.”

“Race me!”

Tim looks suspicious. “You can fly.”

“I have no need to fly to beat you.” Kon kicks his horse. She tosses her head with an indignant whinny before surging into a canter, scattering dead leaves behind her. “Last one there has to pay for supper!”

“You’re a prince! You ought to be paying regardless!” calls Tim.

Kon glances over his shoulder. Tim is charging after him, red cape streaming behind him like wings.

Kon grins wider and urges his horse on.

The village of Bristol sits on a flat plain of dying wildflowers. It is large by village standards, home to perhaps four hundred people, with a mill, a smithy, a market green, and two taverns. Harvest garlands hang between the buildings, and paper lanterns sway above the streets in preparation for the end-of-season festivities.

Tim spends an unreasonable amount of time inspecting the roofs. They are steeply pitched, he explains, because the western rains become brutal during winter. Apparently, flooding is a persistent problem throughout Rainfell.

“I am astonished by the depths of whoever named Rainfell’s creativity! Truly a marvel!” says Kon.

This earns a chuckle from Tim.

A person could live quite comfortably in Bristol without ever having cause to leave. Kon finds himself genuinely enjoying exploring the village with Tim.

Except for the bit about the roofs. That was painfully boring.

They introduce Kon to the village as Tim’s squire, Conner of House Kent. Martha and Jonathaniel of House Kent are minor gentry, and nobody in Bristol would know that a Conner Kent does not exist.

Kon announces Tim as Ser Timothy Drake, Lord-Elect of Rainfell, of the Order of Robins, sworn protector and favorite shield of His Royal Highness Prince Kon of House El.

Tim doesn’t object, but his ears burn red every time Kon does this.

Kon finds it delightful.

By day they question villagers together and by night they drink and dance and eat egregious amounts of food.

In the week they’ve been here, Kon has eaten at least nine chickens, all seasoned with dill pollen. He has never had dill pollen before. Dill pollen is common fare in the west, but it spoils too quickly to survive the long journey east to Metropolis. Kon supposes it’s another thing to look forward to when he visits Rainfell.

As they investigate, more and more Kon comes to believe in the changeling theory. Tim seems to as well, despite not admitting it.

The miller has stopped properly maintaining his mill. He still makes deliveries, but they’re often to the wrong homes. He also discovers the inventory ledgers and finds that the miller’s signature changes drastically after he supposedly returns.

Tim keeps looking.

The shepherd hasn’t checked on his northern flock in days. The baker’s daughter no longer braids her bread. A farmer known throughout Bristol as a quiet, even-tempered man is seen stomping through his field of strawberries.

They all have the same story.

They disappear only to return shortly afterward. They seem the same to the rest of the village, but the people who know them best can tell something isn’t right.

“I know it sounds mad, but please, that is not my husband,” insists the miller’s wife.

One of their trails brings them to the apothecary. They question the woman there.

“Excuse me, m’lords, but I thought changelings only stole children,” the apothecary woman says after Tim finishes his spiel.

Tim shakes his head. “The fae abide by their laws, but to them the letter of the law matters more than the spirit of it. Technically, ‘children’ could be anyone born. You may be old, but you’re still your mother’s child.”

The apothecary woman makes an odd face at that. It is such a small reaction, a twitch of her eye and a quirk of her lips, but it makes Kon’s hackles rise. Kon must simply be on edge, however, because when he points it out, Tim doesn’t seem to have noticed.

Tim does, however, make a point of keeping a close eye on the apothecary woman after that. She is a recluse whom not many people know all that well. All the people in Bristol wear woven red cords around their necks as protective charms against fae. Tim thinks the cords are useless, but it does not escape Kon that the apothecary woman does not wear one.

Eventually, they return to the tavern for another round of dancing, drinking, and eating.

They order chickens and a large pitcher of ale. It is fun and much like every other night in Bristol until Kon notices something odd.

After the first cup, Tim is entirely himself. By the second, he is noticeably looser and, strangely enough, giggly. By the third, he is having trouble keeping his head up. Halfway through the fourth, he is completely drunk.

Kon naturally has a higher tolerance to all poisons, and alcohol is no exception. Tim, painfully human Tim, is endlessly competitive. He tries to keep pace with Kon drink for drink. He is lean even for a normal man, but he can hold his drink remarkably well.

He always ends the night drunk, but it usually takes at least eight drinks.

Not four.

Kon pushes the rest of his chicken across the table to Tim. “Ser, I do suggest you eat something and hold off on more drink.”

Tim squints at Kon. His eyes are unfocused, and he doesn’t seem to be fully seeing him. “I’m not hungry,” he says simply.

“Then drink some water.”

Tim hiccups and rests his head on the table. His cheeks are rouged. “Not thirsty either, Kon-ner...” he sings Kon’s false name and smiles.

“Tim, you’re drunk.”

His brows furrow. He shakes his head and winces as though even that movement is too much. “That...that doesn’t make sense.” He looks up at Kon as though he’s trying to puzzle something out. “How much did I drink?”

“Four.”

Tim stares at him. “That can’t be right.”

Kon takes another swig of his ale. “Glad to see I can still out-drink you.”

Tim bristles and reaches for another cup.

“You’ll curse yourself come morning,” says Kon.

Tim downs it.

He gags for a second and has difficulty swallowing. Finally, he manages it and slams the cup down, clearly harder than he means to. “I am already certain to regret tonight come morning. I am not losing to you.” He wipes his mouth and swallows hard, clearly nauseous.

Kon decides he’s done drinking for tonight. “Well, I am ready to retire,” he lies. “Perhaps we commit to a late rise tomorrow?”

Tim nods enthusiastically. “I believe that to be wise.” He tries to stand, but the room must be spinning because he slumps down again. “I may require assistance.”

Kon sighs. Tim is unfortunately endearing.

He grabs Tim and throws his arm over his shoulder. Together they half-walk, half-stumble up the stairs.

Tim leans on Kon, his eyes half-closed.

“I have missed you,” he whispers as if it’s a confession.

Kon scoffs. His heart is so incredibly loud in his ears. “I am right here.”

Tim is so close to him. Too close. They can’t get to the room fast enough.

Tim grabs Kon’s lapel for balance. “Sure, but you have been busy with princely things, and I’ve been...preparing to leave.”

Kon frowns at his tone.. “Do you not wish to go?”

“I do...I don’t?” They’ve just about made it to the door when Tim stumbles and catches himself against the wall. He presses his palms to his eyes. “I think something is wrong, Kon.”

“Oh, I wonder...know what it is. You’re drunk.”

Tim groans. Together they stumble through the door. It’s a simple room: a woven rug, one washbasin in the corner, and two beds.

Kon deposits Tim on his bed.

He peels Tim’s boots off his feet and drops them unceremoniously onto the floor. Tim had shed his armor at dusk and wears a simple green gambeson and brown pants.

Tim continues, “I do want to go. Rainfell, it’s an honor, but...”

He trails off, transfixed by the window. They’re on the second floor, and all that waits outside is the skeletal silhouette of a large tree. Tim mutters something Kon can barely hear. “What am I saying? You’ll manage just fine without me.”

Kon sets a cup of water on Tim’s bedside.

“You’ll have Ser Cassandra. She’s a far finer knight,” Tim says a little louder.

“At swordsmanship, perhaps,” says Kon offhandedly. He begins to scrub his face in the washbasin.

“She is more than capable. More capable than most knights twice her age,” Tim insists. His eyes are wide, and his expression is shadowed by the lamplight. “She’ll be a more than adequate replacement.”

Kon groans. Any other night, he could humor drunk Tim. He has done it plenty of times before, but for some reason tonight he has finally had enough.

Maybe it is finally seeing the land Tim will rule. Maybe he is simply mad that he can’t finish his supper.

He throws his wet rag at Tim.

It hits his face with a splat, and Tim grasps at it like an angry cat with a blanket thrown over its head. “What the?!”

“Must I beat it into that thick skull of yours?! You’re not replaceable.”

“That is just demonstrably untrue,” says Tim. “Metropolis has plenty of worthy knights.”

“You mistake my meaning.”

Tim glares at Kon. “By the gods! I must have. Would my prince care to elucidate his point?”

Kon balls his hands into fists and grits his teeth. “Cassandra can replace a knight, but she can’t replace you,” he gets out.

Tim still doesn’t seem to understand. “Of course she can. Do you mean as your friend? She will be a great companion, but I’m not dying. I’ve said, I will write and visit!”

Friends.

Yes.

Tim is his best friend.

No one he trusts more. No one whose counsel he would rather seek. No one knows him better. There is no man alive Kon would prefer to have at his side.

That is all Kon means.

Obviously.

“Aye. As my friend,” says Kon. He forces his expression into something lighter.

“Right...” says Tim. He nods for a little longer than necessary, and Kon is reminded of Tim’s drunkenness. He wonders if Tim will even remember any of this come morning.

Kon hopes not. He feels somewhat foolish.

“Are you nervous about leaving?” Kon asks.

“No,” says Tim a little too quickly. Then, quieter: “What if I’m bad at it?”

“At being a lord?” asks Kon, surprised.

Tim has spent years reading and learning about even the most innocuous things. Kon bets a majority of the lords out there aren’t half as knowledgeable about their lands and subjects as Tim already is.

“You must be jesting. You have prepared for this half your life. What you do not know, you are smart enough to learn.”

Tim draws his knees close to his chest. “I know a lot about a lot of things, sure, but I don’t know how to be five hundred miles away.”

Kon’s heart squeezes. “You’ll learn that too.”

“Maybe…” he says, “but I don’t think I can learn not to miss you.”

Kon’s face grows hot, and he looks away.

Tim’s eyes widen, and he quickly begins counting off on his fingers.

“Or Sers Bruce, Alfred, Cassandra, Stephanie, Babs, Jason, Richard, and Duke...even Damian. They’re my family just as much as they’re my peers.” Tim buries his face in his hands. “I beg your pardon. I am rambling.”

Kon pats him on the back.

There remains so much unsaid in the air between them that Kon can’t begin to understand. Perhaps that is best left to another night, and another, more sober Kon and Tim. “G’night, Ser. Remember to sleep on your side lest your meal deigns to make a late reappearance.”

Tim flops onto the bed. “Yes, mother.”

Kon chuckles and is about to climb into bed when Tim speaks again. “Would you open the window? It’s far too hot in here.”

Kon frowns. They’re approaching winter. If anything, it’s freezing. Kon uses his magic to open the window anyway. He has a blanket and is naturally warmer than a normal man. He can bear one chilly night.

The last thing Kon hears as he drifts off to sleep is the rustle of Tim shifting, trying to get comfortable.

Kon will cherish the time he has left, but he can’t ignore the encroaching winter. Every day brings them closer to Tim’s departure.

Tim is slipping away and, before Kon knows it, Tim will be gone. Kon closes his eyes and tries to grab the moment with both hands and not let go.

Kon wakes with the sun as he does every other day.

He lies there for several moments, warm beneath the blankets, listening to the village stir outside. A wagon rattles somewhere below. A vendor shouts at passersby. The room smells faintly of ale and the cold autumn air still spilling through the open window.

He turns over and is idly surprised to find Tim gone. His bed is made perfectly, as is his way, and his armor and sword, Redbird, are missing.

It is not unusual for Tim to rise before Kon, but it is odd for him to do so after how drunk he became the night prior. The ale must have been very strong. It didn’t seem so to Kon, but he did have trouble distinguishing such things.

When they had arrived in Bristol, Kon traded the fine silks and linens of a prince for the unremarkable garb of an unremarkable squire. This morning he pulls on a plain blue wool tunic, dark green trousers, and his fine leather boots. Over everything he dons a plain black cloak, deliberately avoiding any embroidery, crest, or clasp that might suggest a man of noble birth.

He likes the clothes. They make him feel roguish.

He tries to tame his wild, curly black hair. Kon is somewhat successful and goes downstairs to meet Tim for their morning meal.

The tavern is largely empty, with only a few people chatting in low voices and eating. The air smells like cooking eggs and bacon, and Kon’s stomach growls. An enchanted fiddle dances alone on the wooden stage on the far wall for traveling bards.

Tim sits near it, dressed in a scarlett dress shirt and his eyes fixed on his notes. He has a quill in one hand. He is writing fervently and crossing out lines.

Two plates of pancakes sit to his right. One untouched and the other picked at. On the table, he has a cup of syrup made from wild dandelions. Kon feels warm at the realization. He must have grabbed the syrup for Kon.

Tim doesn’t like sweet things; he prefers to put butter and salt on his pancakes.

Kon sits down heavily next to him and leans over Tim’s shoulder to read his notes. Usually Tim would shove his palm in Kon’s face and push him away for crowding his space. This morning Tim’s hand lifts as if instinctively, almost reaching for Kon’s face, then stops halfway. For a moment he simply looks at his own hand.

Kon supposes he must be really out of it after the previous night.

Tim slides the pancakes over to Kon and says, “I trust you slept well, M’lord.”

Kon waits for the grin or any indication of humor. Kon pauses, brows furrowed.

Tim hasn’t seriously called Kon “M’lord” since before they were friends. Could he be upset with him? Had Kon done something wrong?

He picks up a fork and starts attacking his pancakes. “I did,” he says. “Yourself?” He chuckles even though he doesn’t feel like it. “I was surprised to see you up so early.”

Tim pushes the notes aside and grabs his own plate. Kon notices Tim has poured the syrup on his own pancakes rather liberally. He takes a big bite.

Kon frowns.

“This is the time I normally begin the day. Is it not?” asks Tim.

“It is…”

No headache. He doesn’t seem sensitive to light or particularly grumpy, just distant. There isn’t even any water at the table or any of Tim’s typical hangover cures. Tim should be miserable, but he seems completely unbothered.

“I’m pleased to see you are well.” The pancakes are good. Kon decides to busy himself with his breakfast.

They eat in a silence that is unlike them.

Tim’s responses are curt but not openly irritated.

Finally, he just goes out and says it. “Why are you upset with me? What did I do?”

Tim looks up. “I am not upset with you.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

Kon relaxes a little bit. There he is.

“You seemed upset. You are acting strange.”

Tim stops eating. He meets Kon’s eyes. “How?”

Kon opens his mouth but stops. He’s not sure, actually. There’s just something about the man sitting next to him that feels odd.

“I don’t know,” he admits. He shakes his head. “Where are we going today?” asks Kon, trying to change the subject.

“I want to speak with the supposedly changed people again…I feel as if there is more there.”

“Is it a hunch or are you finally piecing things together?”

“A bit of both, M’lord.”

Kon frowns again.

“I want to question them again and see if there are discrepancies in their stories now that there’s been time.”

Kon supposes that makes sense. “And you have a new theory?”

Tim shakes his head. “More of a reinforcement of an old one. I grow less and less convinced of a supernatural culprit.”

Well, that’s a change. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I want to conduct interviews once more."

“A lot of the evidence points towards something like changelings.”

“And yet there remains no evidence of fae activity in the area. No odd-behaving livestock, mushroom circles, or disturbed milk and butter.”

But there has been strange music heard in the woods, unexplained rashes on the bodies of the missing people’s loved ones, and people have been losing small personal items like rings and a brooch left and right. But…all of these could be explained away by untrustworthy witness accounts, some mundane malady, and common forgetfulness.

Tim has studied more than he has about the fae. Most of Kon’s knowledge of the fae is from Tim. Kon drops the line of questioning, but he still doesn’t like it.

After a moment, he says, “I’ll follow your lead.”

Tim nods. “The baker’s daughter will begin her morning duties in an hour’s time. I think we best start there.”

Tim pours more of the dandelion syrup. Kon pauses, his food halfway to his mouth.

“You really like the syrup, huh?”

Tim looks down at his plate as though this has only just occurred to him. He takes another bite. “I suppose I do.”

“You suppose?”

Tim glances at the cup. “It’s good.”

“You hate sweet things,” says Kon.

Tim shrugs and takes a bite. After a moment, he smiles. “People change.”

One thing becomes clear throughout the day as they make their rounds. Everyone is normal, and something is horribly wrong about that.

The shepherd’s flock is well tended. The baker’s daughter now braids her bread and makes perfect fresh loaves. She offers Kon one, but he declines despite it looking delicious. The strawberry farmer’s fields are pristine and untouched, like nothing happened.

It’s all like nothing happened.

When they stop for food at the market, Kon finds himself watching Tim for something. He’s not sure what.

Even when they question the miller’s wife again, she’s overjoyed because her husband is acting as himself.

“We should pay the apothecary a visit again,” says Kon after they’ve finished speaking with the miller’s wife.

“Why?” Tim asks. Kon doesn’t think he’s imagining the nervous look that flickers across Tim’s features.

“She was suspicious,” he reasons.

“Hardly,” dismisses Tim.

“…and something is wrong with how suddenly ordinary everything is,” continues Kon anyways.

“That is confusing…” Tim admits. He stares at him for a long moment. “My apologies, but I may have wasted your time looking for a mystery where there was none.”

Kon blinks. “What? What do you mean?”

Tim rubs his forehead. "I've gone over everything. The disappearances, the witnesses, and the people who returned. None of it gave us anything concrete."

"So we keep looking."

“And if there’s nothing to find?”

Kon opens his mouth to argue.

"Everyone is safe. The village is functioning normally. There is no evidence of fae activity, no evidence of enchantment, and no one is currently missing." He gives Kon a small, almost apologetic smile. “Everyone is fine. There’s been no new cases since we arrived. I think we should accept that we were wrong.”

“And you’re willing to leave it at that? All of that was what? Coincidence?"

He shrugs. “Perhaps.”

Tim would never let a mystery like this go just because it seemed to resolve itself. He is a bloodhound who, come Hell or high water, never veers from the scent until he has his prey in his jaws. Usually Kon is the one who has to pry him off a trail lest he overwork himself.

Even the attempt on Kon's life, months ago, still occupies some corner of Tim's mind. Kon has caught him more than once poring over his notes long after everyone else had decided the matter was finished.

And now he is simply willing to walk away.

Tim nods resolutely. “I think we should consider this matter resolved. Besides, Metropolis has been without her prince for long enough. The Crown will be eager to have you back.”

Kon can’t believe it. He shakes his head. “Who are you and what have you done with Tim?” The question comes out sounding like a weak joke.

Tim just laughs. “Very funny,” he says and turns on his heel, tromping off back towards the tavern.

Kon remains where he is.

Tim didn’t laugh like Tim. Not quite.

“If we are going to be leaving soon, I wish to stop by the confectionery. My mother would enjoy Bristol’s sweets,” says Kon.

Not Tim turns. He walks back in Kon’s direction. “I shall accompany you.”

“Uh—no…I will be quick, Ser. Go pack our things. I wish to be gone from this place by first light.”

Not Tim smiles nervously. Now that Kon is looking, he notices how it has far too many teeth. “As you wish, M’lord.”

A cold fear creeps up Kon’s spine. He wants so desperately to be wrong—for Tim to be safe and simply acting oddly—but he knows that he is right.

And that begs several terrible questions. Where has that thing taken Tim? What has it done to him? How long has Tim been gone?

His last question makes Kon feel nauseous…

Did the thing kill him?

Kon doesn’t waste any time. He doesn’t know how long it will take for Not Tim to realize Kon’s on to it. Maybe it already knows.

He abandons all pretense of being a regular man and flies to the apothecary woman so fast that his cloak is ripped from his shoulders.

He crashes through the door, startling an older woman purchasing a tincture, and storms up to the apothecary woman, iron blade in hand. Kon’s vision has gone red. He breathes hard, not from exertion, but rage.

“You will tell me where my knight is.”

The apothecary woman stumbles back, her face a picture of abject fear. “I know not of what you speak, M’lord!”

He goes to attack her, but vines burst from the cracks between the floorboards. They lash toward him. Kon tears through them without slowing.

In half a heartbeat, Kon is behind her. He locks her head in his arm and presses the iron blade to her throat. The flesh underneath the knife begins to sizzle. He can hear the rapid flutter of her heart like that of a cornered rabbit. “Thinking me a fool will be the greatest mistake you ever make. I know what you are, and I will kill you,” he growls.

“Your knight is dead!” she spits out. Her heartbeat stutters.

“Do not lie to me!” The bottles on the shelves rattle with his words. Kon is not a violent man. He barely even likes hunting. But images of Tim dead or dying flash through his mind, and the blade digs a little deeper.

The apothecary woman cries out, her knees nearly giving out. Kon holds her up. Her skin begins to smoke.

“Tell me where he is!” he demands again.

“Your knight is where all dead go after their bodies have begun to rot!”

She’s lying. She must be lying!

“I swear to every god you know, if you have really harmed him—”

A shadow falls in the shattered doorway. He watches them both with steely eyes.

Kon’s heart leaps.

Tim.

Then the man in the doorway tilts his head.

No…that’s right, it’s the changeling.

“I would advise against killing her, M’lord,” says the imposter.

“And why’s that?” Kon snaps. His grip tightens around the apothecary woman’s throat.

It stands there wearing Tim’s armor. Redbird hangs at its hip. Not Tim watches him with an odd expression.

Something almost like wonder.

Not Tim enters the apothecary shop. With him out of the doorway, Kon can see people have begun to gather.

“Who is that?” he hears someone ask.

“It’s the prince! Prince Ken, I think!”

“I don’t think that’s right…”

Kon swallows.

This could get out of hand quickly.

It doesn’t answer Kon’s question. Instead, it says, “Do you know, when one of my kind takes the shape of another, we also take their memories and their habits?” It gets closer and watches Kon with Tim’s eyes.

“Be silent!” the Apothecary woman hisses.

It glares at the Apothecary woman. “Your knight is alive,” it says.

Kon narrows his eyes, not trusting its words.

“There is a hill a mile to the east. It sits alone in a flat plane of grass. You will not miss it. It is a fae mound and an entrance to our world…” It draws Redbird from Tim’s scabbard and places it delicately on the floor. “Please, M’lord, release the woman.”

Kon does reluctantly. He snatches Redbird and clutches it to his chest. It rushes to the Apothecary woman’s side. It tries to help her stand, but she shoves it so hard it falls. Kon uses his magic to catch it and trap the Apothecary woman in a vice.

She gasps, “You traitor! You filthy blood traitor!”

The apothecary woman goes still. Then everything in the shop moves. Bottles explode from the shelves. The lamps extinguish. Black roots split the floorboards beneath the changeling’s feet.

“Choke on your treachery!”

The changeling barely has time to turn before the roots wrap around its throat. The changeling struggles, gasping for air. Annoyed, Kon tears the changeling from the root’s grasp. He throws the Apothecary woman over his shoulder and shoots up into the sky with the changeling in his other hand.

Now in the sky, he uses his magic to keep her quiet and to create a platform for the Changeling to stand. The Apothecary woman won’t be able to cast her plant magic in the air. Tim calls it air jail. The name makes Kon laugh despite himself.

The changeling rubs its throat, still struggling for breath. It watches with wary eyes. “Why did you save me?”

“I’ve got the same question. You first.”

It sighs. “You knew I wasn’t him before half a day had passed.”

Kon says nothing.

“You should not have been able to tell.” There is something almost wounded in the creature’s voice now. “I know everything,” the changeling continues. “His history. His training. His duties. Every oath he has ever sworn. I remember meeting you as a boy in the gardens of Keep Wayne. I remember your first hunt together. Your first battle. I remember you vomiting over the royal gallery after Ser Damian knocked him from his horse.”

Kon almost laughs.

The changeling touches two fingers to its temple.

“I remember all of it.”

Its expression twists. “None of it makes sense.” It grimaces and meets his eyes. “You both don’t make sense…” It looks away. “And…somewhere beneath that hill is a man who cannot stop thinking about whether you are safe. I find that I would very much like to know what he does when he sees you again.”

Kon doesn’t want to say thank you. He does anyway, and the Changeling looks more perturbed than if Kon had screamed at it.

Kon puts the Apothecary woman’s arms behind her back and wraps them with his belt. “I’m going after Tim.”

Kon lowers them toward the village and deposits the apothecary woman in the jail’s iron-lined cell. He puts the changeling in the cell opposite her, mostly because the apothecary woman has already tried to murder it once and Kon would prefer not to return to a corpse.

The changeling catches the bars as Kon turns away. “M’lord.”

Kon looks back.

Tim’s face stares at him from behind the iron. It takes off Tim’s scabbard and passes it between the bars. Kon sheathes Redbird.

“Some of the villagers will still be alive,” it says. “Others may have been eaten already…”

Kon nods grimly and flies off to find the mound.

The mound rises from an otherwise flat field like some enormous green swollen lump upon the earth. Dead grass waves around its base in the autumn wind. A single hawthorn decorated in totems grows crookedly from its crown, its branches almost bare. It’s exactly as the changeling had said.

The only problem is that there’s no entrance. No cave, no door, no nothing. He wills an opening to appear. The hill remains unsympathetic to his plight.

Maybe he could smash the Hawthorne.

No. Over the past week, Kon has been listening to Tim go on about the fae’s rules. Surely a fae mound would function similarly.

What was it that he had said?

Must he offer a blood sacrifice or circle the hill several times?

Kon can’t remember, but seeing as he doesn’t have anything capable of cutting his skin, he lands and begins circling the hill.

Nothing. Kon sits before the hill. The sun begins to fall behind the horizon. Perhaps he can wait for a fae to open the hill and follow them inside?

Kon crosses his legs and pouts. That will take too long. He stabs his iron blade into the ground, and it’s like the world exhales.

Kon freezes.

Somewhere inside the hill, strange music begins to play.

There's a dull thud from beneath the earth. Kon stands.

There it is again. Is it a drum?

“Help!” screams a muffled voice. “Help us!”

There’s someone underneath the ground. Kon drops to his knees and digs his fingers into the damp soil. He throws handful after handful of dirt as he digs. Finally, he sees something pink that looks like skin. He thrusts his hands into the dirt and rips the woman from the ground.

She gasps, her eyes wide and frantic. “Oh, my gods! I’m free!” she weeps.

Kon looks her in the face. It’s the apothecary woman, or rather the woman whose face was stolen by the creature trapped in that cell in Bristol.

“You were taken by the faerie!” says Kon. “There was a man who was taken too. He is a knight. Have you seen him?”

She doesn’t seem to fully register Kon at all. He grasps her by the arms and says again, “His name is Ser Timothy Drake. Have you seen him?!”

“The knight! Yes! He was right behind us.”

“Us?” Kon asks.

“Aye! The passage threw us out beneath the earth,” she gasps. “We had to dig for the surface.”

“Please!” shrieks a new voice. Kon leaps up and begins digging for the new person. Moments later, there’s a third voice: “Help me!”

He digs frantically, unearthing the Baker’s daughter and the miller. They tell him the farmer had been eaten. “His screams, M’lord!” cries the Miller. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The faerie tore him bloody like wild dogs!”

Still no Tim.

Every single one of them says the same thing. Tim had helped them escape and had been right behind them only moments before. They had been chased.

“He stayed behind.”

Kon's stomach drops.

“Stayed behind?”

The baker's daughter nods, crying. “To hold them off.”

Kon punches the hawthorn in half. Tim got everyone else out except for himself.

“How do I get inside?” he asks.

“You can’t, M’lord!” insists the real Apothecary woman. “It’s impossible to escape!”

“You all escaped,” says Kon.

The ground begins to rumble. A strange music starts to play. Dirt and grass collapse into the shape of a hole.

The real Apothecary woman cries out in fear. The miller drops to a crouch and covers his head with both hands. The Baker’s daughter shivers as if struck by frostbite.

Kon peers over the ledge. It’s a tunnel with roots and clumps of dirt hanging from the tunnel roof.

He takes a deep breath. Tim is in danger; there’s no time to second-guess things. He’s about to jump inside when he hears the sound of steel striking steel on the other side.

Then a familiar voice snarls, “Oh, piss off!”

Tim.

Without a second thought, Kon dives into the hole.

The tunnel drops sharply beneath him, narrow as a rabbit burrow and barely wide enough for a man. Roots scrape across Kon’s shoulders as he flies downward through the dark. The strange music grows louder the farther he descends, all pipes and bells playing a melody that seems to change whenever he begins to understand it.

Then the tunnel opens. Kon almost runs directly into a sword. He twists aside. The green blade whistles past his face. A creature stands before him. It has the head of a goat, perfectly symmetrical and completely lifeless. Its eyes are enormous and wet, its pupils too narrow. It smiles with human teeth that stretch almost to its ears. In one slender hand, it holds a glowing green falchion.

Kon punches it. He feels its face cave with his fist. The faerie leaves the ground and disappears into the darkness with a shriek. Kon stares after it. “Well. That was peculiar.”

“Kon!”

He turns.

Tim is twenty feet away.

Actually Tim.

He is barefoot and filthy, his green gambeson torn open along one shoulder. Blood streaks one side of his face. He holds one of the strange green falchions in both hands, and three more faeries are slowly circling him.

Kon’s stomach drops.

Tim looks exhausted. His shoulders sag between attacks. His swords tremble slightly in his hands. Still, he is standing because, of course, he is.

“You’re alive!”

Tim looks toward him. “I’m surprised as well!” The relief that crosses his face lasts less than a heartbeat. His eyes are wide. “Down!”

Kon drops. A green falchion passes directly over his head. He spins and catches the faerie by the throat. The creature claws frantically at his wrist. Then the green sword brushes against his forearm.

Pain explodes through him. Kon cries out and drops the faerie. He stumbles backward. A thin red line burns across his skin.

Tim sees it. “Kon!”

“I’m fine!”

“You are bleeding!”

“You’ve got good eyes!” The faerie lunges again. Kon ducks beneath the falchion and drives his shoulder into its stomach. Kon tosses Tim his scabbard. “Your sword, Ser!”

Tim catches it, drawing Redbird. It gleams menacingly in the fae light. Tim smirks and dives back into the fight with renewed vigor.

They fight on, eventually ending back to back as the creatures advance.

Despite the situation, “Why are you barefoot?” is all Kon manages to say.

Tim looks down.

“A series of very poor decisions and a rather sticky riverbed.”

Kon almost laughs.

Then something moves at the far end of the chamber. The music stops. Every remaining faerie goes still. A tall creature steps from the darkness.

It is perhaps seven feet tall, impossibly thin and beautiful, dressed in robes the color of dead leaves. Antlers curl from its skull.

Its mouth does not move when it speaks.

“You enter our home. You steal our guests?!”

Tim straightens beside Kon.

“Guests?!” exclaims Kon.

“We were prisoners,” says Tim coolly.

“You all ate beneath our hill.”

”And you ate a man!” says Kon

”You accepted our hospitality.”

“We were drugged!

“And you ate a man!” says Kon again.

“You defile our sacred laws! You kidnap our dinner guests! You attack my children!” The creature smiles. “You must die!”

Tim sighs. “This is precisely why faeries are exhausting.”

Kon glances at him. “You have a plan?” Kon asks.

“Several.”

“Any of them good?”

“Not particularly…”

“Oh, good,” Kon deadpans. He sounds sarcastic, but Tim’s “not good plans” are almost always ten kinds of brilliant.

The faeries begin creeping toward them.

Tim shifts beside Kon. Their shoulders touch.

“Kon?”

“Yes?”

“I’d hate for my last outing with my sworn-charge to end with him maimed…”

“Aye! No dying for you either!”

“All of their blades are made of that crystal,” explains Tim. “So, try not to get stabbed. Okay?”

Kon grins. “You first.”

They charge together.

The sun begins to rise on a new day, and two figures crawl out of a hole beneath a fairy mound. Their bodies are covered in red and black blood that shimmers in the morning light.

Kon insisted that Tim leave the fae world first. He collapses onto a blanket of soft moss and dry grass. Kon follows a few feet behind, falling next to Tim.

He wraps an arm around Tim. His body is sticky with blood and sweat, but Kon still pulls the other man close. Kon can hear the steady beat of his heart and feel the gentle rise of his breath. He’s alive. He’s hurt and bleeding and tired, but Tim is alive.

The corners of Kon’s eyes sting and he stifles a relieved sob.

There’s a shuffle and the sound of someone approaching. Kon tries to lift his head. He manages to see a familiar pair of boots standing in the grass. Tim's boots.

Wait…Tim’s boots?

Oh, come on…

“I am pleased to see you survived, M’lord,” says the changeling. It still uses Tim’s voice.

Tim stiffens next to him. With great effort, he pushes himself up with one hand and throws his body over Kon. “Get away from him!” He waves Redbird, and the changeling backs away.

“Ser…” tries Kon.

“Fascinating…” says the Changeling.

“By the gods!” exclaims Tim, having realized he was looking at his own face.

“Tim!” says Kon. Kon twists around to face Tim. Tim swings and slashes the changeling’s arm.

Kon cups his face. “It’s okay…hey! Hey! It’s okay!”

Tim looks down at Kon.

“It helped us,” says Kon.

The changeling falters.

Tim nods slowly and lowers his sword.

Looking into Tim’s eyes, Kon forgets what he meant to say. They’ve never been this close before.

Tim seems to remember himself and scrambles away. Kon misses the feeling of Tim’s weight atop him—which is ridiculous. Kon’s being ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous.

Kon groans. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I should have guessed you would not stay in jail,” says Kon from the ground.

The changeling holds a cloth to its black, bleeding arm. “Of course not. You will find the woman to be gone as well.”

“So, it was all a trick?”

“You have your knight back. Do you not?”

Tim stands, glaring at the changeling wearing his face. “Would either of you care to enlighten me as to what is happening?”

“It stole your place, but it also told me where they took you,” explains Kon.

“…why?” asks Tim suspiciously.

”Curiosity,” says the changeling simply.

“Curiosity?” asks Tim. “About what?”

“About you,” it smirks, and for a second it looks so much like Tim. “We are perfect copies, but we don’t get it all right. You can know everything about a person, the things they do, but not why they do it.”

Tim narrows his eyes. “That is not really an answer.”

“It is the only one you are receiving. You and your prince must have something to catch up on,” it says flippantly.

The changeling had been so specific with Kon’s questions. Why be difficult now? Oh. Kon sees that grin for what it is. He’s seen it on Tim’s face many times.

Such a vague answer, especially about himself, will drive Tim mad. The changeling has Tim’s memories and must know this.

The changeling is messing with Tim.

Kon can’t help but laugh, which jostles his bruised ribs. He groans and rolls over.

“Kon!” shouts Tim. He helps Kon stand.

“How much of the court did you leave alive?” He asks, eyeing their injuries.

Tim closes his eyes for a moment. He can conjure the exact image of anything he has seen in his mind with perfect clarity. Kon can see him counting. “Three fifths.”

“The court will not forgive that.”

Kon gestures back toward the hole. “They did attempt to eat us.”

“They will consider that irrelevant.”

“Of course they will,” grumbles Tim

It says, “You need to destroy the mound.”

“Need?” asks Tim.

“The passage knows you now. The court knows your names. Your blood is beneath their hill. You crossed the threshold, broke hospitality, killed members of the court, and escaped.” It explains. “If you leave the doorway, they will follow.”

Tim becomes very serious. “How do we collapse it?”

It nods toward the hill. “Break the heart.”

“What heart?”

“The heart of the mound.”

“Yes. What is that?”

“You’ll recognize it.”

“You are remarkably irritating,” says Tim. “I don’t buy that you’re merely doing this because you’re curious. What do you get out of this?”

It hesitates. “I betrayed my people. They will come for me harder even than they do the both of you.” It steps away, pulling Tim’s helmet over its head.

“Where are you going?” asks Kon.

“Yes! And what was that green rock?” calls Tim.

The changeling stands beside a thin tree.

“Wait,” says Tim. All the color drains from his face.

“How long have fair folk been replacing people?”

The changeling doesn't answer.

“How many?”

Again, nothing.

“Are you the first to retain the memories this completely?”

It smiles with Tim’s face. “Have a nice trip back,” it says. The changeling walks behind the tree and doesn’t come out the other side.

Tim stares in disbelief. He curses. “Damn thing took my armor.”

Kon rests his head on Tim’s shoulder and sighs. “Forge your next from iron.”

Kon glances up. Tim is still staring at the tree where the changeling disappeared. His eyes are wide, and he looks deeply concerned.

“Aye…” Tim says.

“Do you have any idea what this heart might be?”

“I think so, but I’d rather not discover I was wrong.”

“Meaning?”

Tim considers the shattered hawthorn, the totems hanging from its branches, and the mouth of the passage yawning beneath it.

“Do you feel well enough to pulverize the entire hill?”

Kon grins. He punches his fist into his hand. “That does seem thorough.”

“Quite,” says Tim.

Kon moves Tim out of the blast radius. Then he flies high in the air and shoots back towards the mound. It explodes with a thundering crack, and the mound collapses as if it were made of sand.

Kon floats back down next to Tim. His arms are crossed, and he looks at Kon with such an unmistakable fondness. Kon could soar into the air and do loops despite his injuries.

“I’m ready to go sleep for a week,” says Tim. He puts his arm out for Kon. “Shall we?” Kon takes it. Together they walk, stumble, and fly back to Bristol.

The changeling imposters are long gone by the time they get back to Bristol, which isn’t particularly impressive. It takes them a long time to hobble home.

The sun is high in the sky, and Tim has lost a lot of blood by then. Kon has to carry him to the ruined apothecary and beg the real apothecary woman to save him.

His hands shake as she works to bring him back. Kon can finally breathe again when he sees Tim's eyes flicker underneath his eyelids.

They spend several more days in Bristol recovering. Tim doesn’t wake for two of them. Kon spends those two days locked in the room—never sleeping. He thinks the changeling had stolen Tim away as they slept.

When he finally opens his eyes, Kon can’t help but shed tears. Tim has the good grace not to make fun of Kon for doing so.

With Tim awake, Bristol showers the two with gratitude. Kon makes sure to tell tales from their adventures about how brave and strong their soon-to-be lord is—how he rescued the village from the clutches of the fae and returned their loved ones. Kon embellishes only a little and grins devilishly when he sees Tim’s ears burn red.

It seems for now that Bristol is safe from fae and their changelings. Iron is an expensive metal, but Tim makes sure to let them know the moment he is lord of Rainfell, they are to expect a shipment of iron charms to hang above their doorways and add to their woven cords.

The changeling had robbed Tim blind and left nary a scrap of cloth from his possessions. They spend a day relieving the burden of their coin purses and acquiring clothes for the trip. Tim purchases a deep maroon doublet. It brings attention to the broadness of his shoulders and tapers sharply at his waist. It’s a handsome look, and he wears it well. If Tim hadn’t, Kon would have purchased it for him.

By the eighth day, both men feel well enough to ride. They bid Bristol goodbye and set off on their journey home.

It’s on the third day of travel that Tim asks his question.

They made camp beneath a canopy of trees stripped bare by wind and a creeping winter. A fire crackles warmly, and Tim stokes it with his dagger. Kon carves an apple.

“How good was it?”

Kon raises his eyebrows.

“The changeling,” Tim continues. “How good of an imposter was it?”

Kon’s surprised Tim hasn’t asked this question sooner. He could tell the changeling’s words still vexed Tim despite the man not mentioning it again.

“Not very,” says Kon.

It’s Tim’s turn to look surprised. “It had my face, my voice, my memories, and my mannerisms. Looking at it, if I had not known it was not me, I would have been fooled.”

Kon shakes his head. “Sure, it had all those things, but I still knew it wasn’t you.”

Tim furrows his brows. He stares ahead into the fire. “How?”

Kon sighs. He takes a bite of his apple to buy himself time to think. The fruit was harvested late into the season, so it's very sweet, and Kon wipes the juice from his chin. “I know you. I would know you with my eyes closed and my ears shut,” is all he says.

Tim is very quiet for a while until he asks, “How long did it take for you to realize?”

Kon slices another piece of apple. “Half a day.”

His eyes are wide. “Half a day...!” Tim trails off. “Oh,” he says.

Kon turns to find Tim watching him intently. He has that look on his face like Kon’s a puzzle Tim must figure out lest his brain pour out of his ears.

“What?” Kon asks.

Tim doesn’t seem sure himself. He shakes his head as if chasing away a thought. “The changelings struggled to go completely undetected by their victim’s loved ones.”

Kon has to look away when Tim says loved ones.

He clears his throat. “Right.” He doesn’t say more, waiting for Tim’s explanation.

“The one wearing my face now knows from us how to circumvent this issue. It looks like me, has my armor, and an undefined amount of my memories. That’s potentially a wealth of information about you, the Order, Metropolis, and the crown.

“That’s a catastrophic threat. I mean, imagine, Kon. The fae has a green crystal that can cut you—it may be capable of hurting the king—and can impersonate me perfectly.”

“Not perfectly,” corrects Kon.

Tim shakes his head. “The changeling wasn’t helping us out of altruism, Kon. We offered it an opportunity to learn and patch an weakness in its capabilities. It might be able to fool even you now.”

“No. It won’t.”

“Kon…”

“Tim.” Kon stares at him, expression serious.

“You can’t be sure.”

Kon sighs and sets his apple down. He relents. “You are free to implement the numerous protocols I know you’ve been turning around in your head.”

“I can’t let them get to you,” says Tim.

“I know.”

“I don’t know what I would do if—”

Kon puts his hand on Tim’s. “I know,” he says. They meet eyes for one endless second. “You won’t have to worry about me much longer,” he says wryly. “I’ll be Ser Cassandra’s problem soon.”

That seems to be apparently the perfect wrong answer. Tim pulls away.

He buries his face in his elbow. “Ask me to stay,” he says. “Tell me you want me and need me and this is all a bad time for me to go and I won’t.”

There's a puff of fog each time Kon breathes.

“I want you,” says Kon slowly. Tim looks up as if surprised. “I need you,” Kon continues. “I hate that you’re going. I will miss you every day, and my heart will be with you for every second that you’re gone…and I can’t ask you to stay.”

Tim is quiet for a long moment. He nods resolutely. “Okay,” he says simply. They’re both quiet for a long time after that.

From above them, a small white dot drifts into the fire. Kon catches the next in his palm. Glowing white against his blood-red glove is a snowflake...

Kon closes his hand so tight the leather creaks.

Winter has come.

Tim’s eyes are still trained in his boots. He looks up at the noise, and another snowflake lands on his nose. He regards it with the same intensity Kon did.

Around them, the snow begins to fall in earnest. Kon uses his magic to create an invisible dome around their fire. It traps the heat and keeps the cold out.

Tim watches the snow accumulate on the outside and slide down the sides as it melts.

They meet eyes.

“Not yet,” says Kon.

Tim nods. “Not yet,” he agrees.

He lies down on his bedroll. Tim does the same. They lay side by side.

In the dark, hidden away from the cold embrace of winter, their fingers find each other. Kon holds his hand as if Tim would disappear like smoke if he let go. Kon tries to commit every curve and freckle of his face to his memory so when he closes his eyes, Tim is what he sees.

“Tim?”

“Mmh?” Tim blinks sleepily.

“Nobody can replace you.” Kon tightens his grip on Tim’s hand. “You understand that, right?” he asks.

He leans forward, and their foreheads are only an inch apart. “I’m beginning to…” Tim says. His breath steadies as he falls asleep.

Kon closes his eyes, but he doesn’t follow. He can’t go to sleep. They’ve only got so much time before Tim is five hundred miles away.

And Kon won’t miss a single second.