a flame in two cupped hands
Pre-dawn, the third day before Imbolc, 1014 II Age
Katsuki Yuuri dreamt of warmth.
It had been the end of a long day when he’d finally laid down for sleep, and there were still longer days ahead. With Imbolc approaching, so were visitors from afar, and that left his family scrambling to attend to the needs of guests of the royal house. We of Katsuki House, his father said, smiling fondly and broadly: we are the stewards of this place. People come to Hasetsuil for the rebirth of the year, hailing the Spring as she rises out of the east. They were hosts, helpers; not nobles. Nobility was for the high elves in the citadel spilling up on the hill that stood here, right at the edge of the sea. At its peak, one could look in all four directions; the coast ran north and south for miles, the blue expanse of ocean stretched east, and the grasslands raced away west to the distant steppes, visible only on very clear days. His father was a mage, descended from mages; a whole family who had tended the waters of the healing springs that bubbled nearby for generation after generation. His mother had broken tradition when she’d married him; even for a low elf, marrying a human was uncommon. Yet the clues to it had been in her magic, all warm heat, the kinds of things that stoked the fires of hearth and home and which made her perfectly at home with the clan of city stewards. We can do something that touches people more directly, his mother had murmured, seeing to a long list of festival logistics on behalf of the ruling house. We are the actual hands and feet that will show these strangers welcome.
Yuuri dreamt of red and gold.
Welcome. Welcome was all well and good; hospitality was a beautiful tradition, all simple, ordinary nobility. It was also exhausting, particularly for Yuuri, who did not open up to strangers the way his mother or sister could, who did not blossom in crowds, but instead felt his strength waning at the precise time in which it was meant to wax with the arrival of spring, as the earth grew stronger. Fortunately it was a problem he only needed to face once a year. It was the season of Imbolc, and on Imbolc, Hasetsuil flew banners of streaming white, pink, yellow, and red, unfurling like giant swaths of sunrise as they flew down from the citadel. Once a year the citizens rose just before dawn and put together fresh crowns of snowdrops, wove them into their hair; and it was with these that they turned to greet the rising sun with dance and song and cheer.
Yuuri dreamt of falling feathers.
The dancing he could do, and had done, every year, as part of the festival, ever since Minako, one of the elves, had seen him at Imbolc as a child and insisted he be brought to the elves to learn the finer points of art. It was an honor, that. Minako was a respected elder at the hall of the arts; knew more about magic and the things which were beautiful than anyone else he knew. Every year to line up for the ceremonial dances of Spring as her pupil was an honor he could only hope to be worthy of, even if he continued to disappoint with magic that, by contrast, only presently emanated little weak bursts of gold, like the very earliest tendrils of dawn. Minako had another student closer to his age, a young elf, and Kenjirou had more faith in him, but that seemed to be part of Kenjirou’s natural mien: he burned with belief, and did not seem to comprehend human pessimism. Together they’d wake up on Imbolc and disperse flower petals ahead of the walking crowds, just in front of the anyone coming to court to present their familiars, and at night they’d be among the first to light candles as the ceremony faded into dusk. Yuuri liked that part, the dancing. Amidst the crowds and the ceremony it offered a certain way to lose himself. He liked the thousand points of candlelight, too. He dreamt of their radiance, of the fragile, mesmerizing flicker of their flame.
At the end of Imbolc it never failed that Yuuri slept like a rock, spent as the fireworks his mother made to delight the Hasetsuil children. Someday you’ll be the one we introduce with a guardian, Mari had told him, six years before, as her tanuki gleefully darted around the house, leaving little pools of mirage magic everywhere for weeks until she got the hang of it.
He dreamt of beating wings, of flying into the sun, and that heat, heat which grew and changed even as he slept, and drifted deeper and deeper into it. Molten gold spun around him, and something soft as red silk, until slowly the warmth which at first had been so welcoming, so inviting, it became a warning, and then it became unbearable, and then, suddenly:
Katsuki Yuuri snapped upright, his sleeping tunic doused in his own sweat, and he knew with a sudden clarity that he was meant to be somewhere else; needed, and so he dressed in silence and stepped out of his family’s hall and onto the streets, to the edge of the plains, where he whistled one of the city’s great eagles under his fingertips — a bird he’d known since childhood, for almost as long as he could remember, and then, before the first rays of light began to brush the horizon, he flew. After Mari’s year visiting the great capitals, she’d come back and told him proudly that only Hasetsuil had the great eagles, and that next to no one had believed her little brother had raised up an injured one practically from hatching to adulthood.
Tending to Vicchan had been natural though, logical; he’d seen the little chiclet in the ravaged nest one day with Yuuko and Takeshi, and instinct had insisted that somehow Yuuri Katsuki could fix this, could save this one fragile life. Except the eagle was not so fragile now.
Hasetsuil, the mound overlooking the sea, and its half-circle of thatched huts began to disappear behind him with each confident burst of the great eagle’s wings. The grasslands stretched out below. They were dark at this time of night and, he realized suddenly, possibly dangerous. Traveling with Mari or his parents was a different matter: his parents each knew their own brand of magic intimately, and even Mari’s tanuki, with its special breed of illusion, could prove handy in an ambush against the kinds of forces that tended to stir in the night. Chaotic magic, some of it evil, none of it well understood. Still, the eagle glided on. Vicchan was trustworthy and would keep him safe.
He was bound for the sienna steppes, where the plains ended and the great canyon began, marking the first of several almost impassable divides that separated east from west. Between those two nations stretched a host of desert, practically inhospitable, but running along the eastern side of it was a deep canyon, cut like a scar by a river that had been running for thousands of years. Its rocks gleamed red from the glow of sunrise, lit and shining like fires as he directed the eagle to land, not certain now what exactly it was he was supposed to be looking for, now that he was here.
How many times had he ventured out here with Yuuko and Takeshi against the will of their parents the moment they’d all been old enough to snatch onto eagles and search for adventure? Sometimes Hasetsuil felt small compared to the call of the plains and the fields, where the sun turned wheat to spun gold under its warmth and its heat. They had come up to maturity running wild on the plains together, had their first magical failures, their first unimpressive successes. There was a rock formation called the Nisgorieth, the torch of the East, and they’d raced each other to climb up it, scrambling for footholds and making quick-footed leaps up the boulders. Somehow it had felt harder as a child to take the jumps he made now: the monument had loomed large in his mind, insurmountable, and now it was a short scramble to the top where he knew he’d be able to see for miles in all directions, looking out at the mouth of the canyon and the steppes and mesas on the horizon ahead, a jagged scar of red and gold that stretched westwards.
There, seated as though he’d been waiting for some time, was an old man. No, Yuuri realized, that wasn’t quite right. This man was ageless, somehow, as though well beyond the concepts of youth or time. In his cupped hands burned a subtle, waning fire, more smoke than it was flame. He looked up and met Yuuri’s gaze with eyes that were molten gold. We were beginning to wonder if anyone would come, he said, though Yuuri was certain that his mouth hadn’t moved. Under this great gaze he felt feverish again, and utterly transparent, as though something had flown into him and was rattling around through his bones, could hear and sense his thoughts.
It was hard to distinguish whether or not the thrumming noise he heard was his heartbeat — too quick, surely, too unsteady — or the beating of wings.
I’m not sorry for this, came the voice, for the last time, and the last thing Yuuri remembered about any of it was the oncoming rush of glorious, vermillion wings and the impression of an all-consuming tower of flame.
He woke to the cool feel of the eagle’s beak against his cheek, alone on Nisgorieth, and the sound of a melodic chirp not entirely unlike the crystal bells kept in Minami Hall: tiny and light and clear as the dawn. Yuuri looked down and there, nestled into his sternum, was the sparkling outline of a small carmine chick. It chirped again, and shimmered gold as it rustled on his chest, and beyond it the setting sun began to sink into the horizon as the eagle nudged him with greater urgency.
He came to his feet slowly, cupping the tiny heat of his new spirit familiar into the palm of one hand, where the little bird curled up, appeared to go to sleep, and then disappeared in a fragile wisp of smoke. The man from earlier was gone; no trace of him remained in any of the directions Yuuri looked out from. “Okay, Vicchan,” he murmured, the words sticky and clunky in his mouth. It had been foolish, perhaps, to come so far without a waterskin. Something about the morning had felt too urgent to ignore. Like the flight ought to this place was the one thing he couldn’t not do.
“Let’s go home.”
Flying into Hasetsuil, though, was another matter; guard whistles arose and as he landed, late in the evening, Mari’s tanuki came flying around the corner to stare him down. It beat his sister by mere seconds.
“Yuuri! Where in the four kingdoms have you been?”
Strange of her to even ask. The familial bond between his house kept Mari, his mother, his father always on the peripheral edge of Yuuri’s consciousness; almost like little constellations of light he could search for in the darkness of his person, certain of where they were and how they were doing. He blinked away confusion. “… I took Vicchan out for a ride to the steppes this morning?” The giant eagle fluffed his wings and made off on his own, leaving Yuuri to face his sister, his arriving parents, and a growing crowd of curious mages and elves alike. On his own feet he felt suddenly weak, hit with uncommon hunger.
“Yuuri,” This was Takeshi’s voice, coming out of an array of guards. He’d been selected to be one, after all; would be marching with them for the first time this year. “You’ve been gone since yesterday.”
“That’s not —“ One step, then two. It was Mari who caught him in her arms. “— possible.”
“He’s burning up,” Mari muttered, pressing a hand to Yuuri’s forehead. “Help me get him to the halls of healing.”
- - -
He dreamt of great fires, of the leap and flicker of flame.
Chirp, chirp.
Yuuri woke again to the feel of something cool and damp over his forehead, and when he blinked to clear his vision he was rewarded with Minako’s face, worried but stern. “There, Kenjirou. He’s waking up.” She smiled, albeit thinly. “Perhaps he’ll still join you for tomorrow’s dance after all. Now, take this bowl back to the Healers for me, if you would, and close the door once you’re on your way out …”
“Can’t I stay and talk to him?”
“There will be plenty of time to talk to him tomorrow.” This was the voice of Hasetsuil’s great teacher of the arts, and it boded no argument. Kenjirou took the bowl and snuck off in a sulk that might’ve drawn a smile from Yuuri if he hadn’t felt so tired, all of a sudden.
“Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your familiar, Yuuri,” Minako said carefully, certain now that he was awake. Then he felt the lurch of her magic:
Such a surprise. Never in all my days did I expect to see you carry the phoenix.
Mind-magic. It came so easily to the elves; his mother had explained that much, but he hated it. It always felt invasive. Even the family bond among Katsuki House troubled him sometimes; as though at any moment someone would slip into his consciousness and discover the ever wheeling, ever churning chaos of its state. Would take the full measure of him and realize it didn’t account for much.
He swallowed down his panic. Minako had known him for years; there was nothing left that the high elf could see that she probably hadn’t already perceived one way or another. I don’t understand.
“I will teach you,” she said, out loud. “How to use it.” Promise me one thing, Yuuri.
What?
Don’t call it the phoenix. If anyone asks, your guardian is the vermillion bird.
“You must understand this, Katsuki Yuuri, before anything else. They will come for you.”
“W-who?”
“Everyone.” Minako smiled but it was sad, and she laid a hand over his wrist. "Even the elves are not fully invulnerable. Some will reach the end of their road and still thirst for more life. They will come to you then. Can you give it to them? Should you?"
- - -
Approximately three years later. Six weeks to Beltane, 1017 II Age
Multiple moons had come and gone since Yuri’d had the privilege of walking underneath the intricate gates of Mosciren and then made the steady spiral climb up the mountain to his father’s house. The city was as impressive and intimidating as he’d left it; even memory didn’t do its ancient intricacies justice. The first of the four capitals of the four kingdoms, Mosciren; the silver gem of the north. Certainly the silver beeches that shivered overhead had something to do with it; that and the silver ore that was wrought out of the mountain. Yakov could bend stone as though it was reed; there was nothing here that he had not in some way woven or shaped. The Alcazar itself rose out of the mountain like it had been a living, breathing thing once; and perhaps it had, back when he’d loved Lilia the first time, had built this place as a monument for her. In the winter snows would come and make it an even starker place of grey and white; Samhain would mark the transition to that time of year, where the world lay crystalized and dormant.
He’d been further south in the kingdom, tending to his training with his mother, was forever frustrated by his lack of progress. It had been his older brother’s call, across the edges of his consciousness, which Yuri finally answered: come back to Mosciren and take a rest. You may find inspiration here.
Easy for Viktor to say. Viktor commanded the white stag, a familiar so famous it had been the symbol of the north for generations. Water and ice trickled from his brother’s fingertips with delicate, breezy ease, as though magic had never been particularly difficult for him. He was famous for it now. Mages traveled for miles on the sheer chance of his advice, and Viktor was terribly elitist when it came to his students, selecting only the very best.
I’m a century older than you, Yura.
Shut up, Vitya.
Silver bemusement drifted his direction across the bond of brothers, like cold silver bells, and Yuri scowled as he finally arrived at the gates, unsurprised to find that he had a chance to display his displeasure directly to its source. There stood Viktor, flower-crowned for spring, wearing a distant smile as the breeze toyed with the long strands of his hair. He seemed obvious to the stark contrast drawn by the man he stood next to; someone Yuri realized with a start that he did not recognize.
“This is Otabek,” Viktor murmured, gesturing to the dark elf who stood next to him. Viktor, who was silver-robed, long-haired; who created an illusion of delicacy and grace — it would be a mistake to think him fragile, or to underestimate his strength, but Otabek exuded it. Otabek’s hair was black as night and cut short, shaved at the edges like the —
Yes, he’s been away on the ranges.
So he’d fought the abominations lingering on the borderlands then. Yuri squashed his curiosity, and inclined his head to acknowledge the greeting.
Otabek barely moved in response, still and impassive as a tower of onyx. It was Viktor who broke through silence again, smirking subtly and thinking so loudly that Yuri wanted to hit him: some joke about cracking the ice —
“How is mother?”
“She sends her regards,” Yuri murmured, and his smirk blossomed, vicious. “Just to you. Father she says can continue to freeze in the depths of seven hundred more winters.”
Wasn’t that always the way, Viktor thought, bemused. Lilia and Yakov were opposing forces; the mountain and its trees. He stayed here, in the high halls of the mountain ranges; she wandered the evergreen woods, oversaw the lower settlement on the pass — Ast Petyriel, the place he’d been born, and where he’d stayed for much of his childhood, evidently out of his mother’s spite. He, too, traveled there sometimes; the stag preferred the winter woods to the mountain’s peaks when the snows came. He supposed it was in his nature to give chase. Perhaps now, with Yuri back in Mosciren, their places could switch for a time.
“Come inside, little brother,” Viktor said, and clasped Yuri on the shoulder then. It was something like affection. Every year it got a little harder to remember when Viktor had been different, more naive, whispered the voice, silver and cold; kinder, Yuri thought to himself, kept in the private spaces his brother couldn’t reach even with all of the magic of the legendary lucky stag, “You can tell him that directly.”
“See you around, Otabek.”
“… Mmn.”
- - -
At night, Viktor humored him, and they climbed to the highest tower and lay on their backs, looking at the stars.
“Did you know you were going to be the stag, Vitya?”
“I did not. I thought I’d let it —“
“Surprise you,” Yuri finished with a snort. “Of course.” How appropriate for his brother, whose guardian was widely believed to bring more than snow and ice, but also luck, in its purest form. To devastating result. That was the story they didn’t tell, the time they never spoke of. “What was it like?”
Viktor smiled his distant, heart-shaped smile, and laid a hand on his chin. He’d this part of the story plenty of times before; might as well pretend again that they hadn’t already had this discussion. “I had dreams,” he said, “for months.” He knew the ancient traditions of the hunt, imagined snapping dogs hot on his heels. “More than once I woke up with my cheek smarting, like it’d been scratched by a branch…”
“Mm.” It was a little uncharacteristic, this reply from Yuri, whose non-magical ability seemed to be centered on his ability to always come up with a clever response. Then he said this: “I want to be like the snow leopards,” he said. “Sleek and silent and deadly. Nothing in the forest comes for them.”
Viktor turned his head, and looked over at his brother, lying still, his hair a faint halo of spun gold.
“Perhaps,” he said, then. “You never know.”
That night, Yuri dreamt of hooves, and of the silver light of the moon. He dreamt of the twinkling of bells.
Of starlight, and something fragile, something delicate. It was white as his brother’s stag but different.
It did not feel cold or distant.
Hope was the word he woke up with, like hope.