a single vowel in this metallic silence
Five weeks, five days to Beltane, 1017 II Age
Viktor wasn’t speaking to Yuri and Yuri wasn’t speaking to Viktor and this would have been fine if it wasn’t for Yakov losing his temper in the morning as Mila broke bread. Ridiculous had been the word he’d used, lambasting each of his sons in turn for their pride and stubbornness before the meal was even over. It’d been hard to take too much satisfaction in hearing Yakov lecture Viktor about his lack of compassion when the ancient elf’s ire had swiftly turned in his own direction. Too much like your mother, Yura. It’s time to grow up.
He’d gone for a walk after that, taking his time in scaling the highest peak of Mosciren, footfalls light on what little remained of spring snow. The days would grow longer until all the snow had melted, fueling a chain of waterfalls that followed the river all the way down to Ast Petyriel. Yuri took that path back down in part because it was the road Viktor loved; he was drawn to water in all of its forms, and to listen to the early bubbling of runoff was as good a reminder as any that underneath his parade of perfection even Vitya had a beating heart; and as careful as he’d been for as long as Yuri had known him to wall it off there were still things it loved.
Back at the Alcazar there was a folded note on his bed, unsigned, but he would’ve recognized the neat, impeccable lines of Viktor’s hand anywhere: Father says I’m to accompany you on the wheel. We leave for Hasetsuil in two days; we’ll travel with their contingent.
What mattered more were the things that weren’t said, which was typical of his brother: Viktor had evidently taken it upon himself to inform Yakov about Yuri’s familiar, though he could assume he’d spared the part of the story where it had gone missing. Taking the pass east to Hasetsuil meant they weren’t traveling due south for Beltane. Viktor might’ve argued this would spare them from encounters with abominations and stray forces in the desert; the truth was more complicated: in the desert wastes, his stag would struggle, deeply isolated from one of its elements, and Viktor’d be weak as a result.
More than any of that: Viktor was agreeing to go west for the first time in Yuri’s entire life. Since the end of the war. Since the time when he’d learned just how dangerous it was, to have the ability to grant wishes.
Yuri reached into the family bond, searched for the silvery threads that marked his brother’s cool consciousness. Apology accepted.
Vitya thought nothing back, but Yuri thought he detected something like a wry, flickering bemusement, and that was enough; it would do.
- - -
Four weeks, three days to Beltane, 1017 II Age
They traveled south from Mosciren through Ast Petyriel on foot; Viktor and Mila, Yuri and Otabek. For a moment, Yuri thought he might’ve escaped his mother’s inquisition while she was distracted welcoming Viktor back to his hometown, but he was gravely mistaken: no detail escaped Lilia’s sharp green eyes, and even as she took Viktor for a walk through the heartwood the sharp bend of her thoughts drifted back to her younger son.
Are you going to tell me what it is, at least, Yura? Vitya says you won’t tell him.
He shut her out before the memory of the unicorn could flash into his consciousness and bleed into the family bond. Then: … it’s a unicorn.
A unicorn? How extraordinary.
He’d cut the conversation short, then, sitting out on the roof of his mother’s hall amidst a starless sky; clouds had come in, and with them the promise of rain, which was only going to please Viktor as they traveled onwards through the woods. It had not felt extraordinary, the spirit that had come to him. It had felt delicate, fragile, weak even.
When it was time to depart, Lilia added one more traveller to their party, Georgi, making passive mention of some heartache he’d recently endured at the hands of a mage girl. Not that Yuri hadn’t already heard the story: he’d been stuck sitting next to Georgi at dinner, and so he’d already gotten the full tale, delivered with mournful pluck by the heartbroken elf. I would have bonded with her, he’d complained, and Yuri’d glanced across the table at Viktor, who was doing a terrible job feigning disinterest. “Get yourself together, Georgi,” he’d muttered. “You’re not the only one who’s had your heart broken.”
Maybe he is, Viktor had thought, at the time, careful to veil his thoughts. He had not been like this, then. He’d been glacial fury; he’d been a tower of unforgiveness; he’d gone to war and won until the debt was paid in full.
“We’ll be glad to have you,” chirped Mila, who could pretend to make good news out of just about anything. Then thunder clapped overhead and Viktor was first to excuse himself; no doubt, Yuri knew, to sleep outside in his element, exposed to the storm.
“Don’t mind my brother,” he explained dryly. “He’s crazy.”
Lilia gave them horses and provisions the next day, entrusting a package to Otabek as they set off through the woods in a gentle rain. She kissed Viktor’s forehead, and then Yuri’s, stooping to cup his chin with two narrow fingers:
Don’t underestimate beauty, her thoughts echoed, leaving him with plenty to think about on the long ride: Beauty is a crushing force of righteousness.
The forest would carry them to the northern mouth of the great canyon that separated east from west; from there they’d proceed along the coast until they arrived at Hasetsuil. Viktor was intolerable as they emerged from the woods to the coast: his blue eyes shone, a perfect reflection of the sea, and his stag charged ahead of the party, chased by Mila’s mischievous weasel. More than once Yuri thought he detected a near-smile from Otabek, and wondered whether or not the banshee could ever be caught in a genuine laugh.
“What’s your guardian, anyway?”
“Mine?” Otabek shook his head slowly, and nudged his horse on. “When you can show me yours,” he murmured with a glance backwards, raising an eyebrow at Yuri, “I’ll show you mine.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Strange, what that almost-smile did to him, thrown so carelessly over one shoulder. “I expect no less.”
- - -
Three weeks, six days to Beltane, 1017 II Age
It must’ve been just before sunrise. Viktor woke to the sound of waves, the purplish light of pre-dawn trickling in through the tent. It wasn’t far to Hasetsuil now; he’d been able to make out the lone hill on the horizon as the sun set on the previous day, before they’d stopped to make camp. Experience told him he was the first one awake; Yuri had an unusual preference for twilight, and Otabek, though he’d never said so in as many words, was likely more attuned to nighttime than he was to the peak of day. Mila would come to perhaps shortly after sunrise, and Georgi, still nursing his heartbreak, would reluctantly close out their party. It didn’t matter. They were close enough now; he could let all of them sleep for a little while longer.
Besides, it meant a morning spent with the sea. The white stag leapt ahead of him as he made his way down to the beach, and strolled barefoot into the morning tide. Further South the outline of Hasetsuil could be seen more clearly, outlined against a growing golden light on the horizon. The ocean’s water was cold, but the waves leapt upwards, curling around the stag as it danced across the incoming tide.
The cry of an eagle in the distance caught his attention, and he watched and marveled at the dance of two great birds — one of the eagles, no doubt — and ribbons of gold and scarlet, showers of sparks and flame as the sun rose behind the second bird.
It was the most elegant magic he’d ever seen. Standing waist deep amidst the incoming waves, fingers over his mouth, all Viktor could do was watch.
The stag had ideas of its own, and burst forward in a stream of silver, white, and blue, leaping and darting over the crashing waves towards the ribbons of fire and light.
Towards Hasetsuil.
There was nothing he could do but follow.
- - -
The phoenix saw the streak of silver and pale blue before Yuuri ever did, and darted down to the water, leaving him no choice to follow. There along the waves raced a white stag, crystalline, full of light, and as Vicchan dove to the ground he leapt off, calling the bird back to his shoulder.
A man with silver hair and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen rounded the far curve of the beach.
“What was that?”
Minako’s words came back to him, suddenly:
They will come for you. Everyone.
It had been foolish, perhaps, indulging the familiar's whims, but the song of sunrise on a clear day like this one was too strong to resist. There had been no denying the phoenix’s drive to fly, to dance, to sing. There, somewhere, was Minako’s wisdom too: life itself is a kind of dance, Yuuri; no wonder it called you.
“Sorry,” he apologized, and put on a careful smile, a polite one. Minako had also been expecting guests; princes of the North, and with the stag standing in the water in front of him now there was no doubt who this could be. Yakov and Lilia were the first generation of the second age; their sons … “I’m not quite sure what you mean.” Yuuri shrugged his shoulders and with the motion the phoenix chirped and disappeared in a soft plume of golden smoke.
“I’m not one to be trifled with,” Viktor murmured carefully. “There was magic. I saw it. Was that you?”
Those blue eyes were dangerous.
“I know who you are,” Yuuri admitted, and he recalled his manners, folded an arm over his chest and bowed. “High Prince of the North. Minako’s been expecting you; Lilia sent a message through the wayseeing stones. Where is the rest of your group?”
Viktor was close now; too close, and he pressed two fingers under Yuuri’s chin, inspected him in a way that made Yuuri feel transparent. The possibility of being seen so clearly, so neatly: that was terrifying.
“… You’re a halfling,” Viktor murmured, utterly surprised. “How curious.”
Halfling. It was enough to ruffle feathers, and Yuuri looked away, stepped back under the protection of one of Vicchan’s wings.
“My family are the stewards of Hasetsuil,” he said, ignoring the waver in his own voice as he said it. What difference did it make if his father was a mage? His mother was an elf. He’d been good enough to be Minako’s pupil. Of course, Minako herself had studied long ago with Lilia, who was Viktor’s mother, and suddenly everything between them made far too much sense. Just a halfling. And he’s High Prince.
“I apologize,” he murmured next. Remember your place, Yuuri. “I’d be happy to show you and the rest of our guests to the city as soon as its convenient, my lord.”
Curious, the way resolve had been in the halfling’s dark eyes one moment, and wavered in the next. Had he been the cause of that? “You don’t have to call me that,” Viktor decided without hesitation. “My name is Viktor.”
“… Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki.”