a silver splendour, a flame

The Festival of Beltane, 1017 II Age

Beltane began at dusk. A Southron mage named Sara had been chosen to lead the processional of revelers through the city, dressed in a white dress with a cape billowing out from both her shoulders, embroidered with creeping crimson flowers and golden starbursts. Yellow flowers and creeping vines were woven together into a high headdress atop her head. She bore a lit torch in each hand, followed closely by Guang Hong and her twin brother, a magus named Michele. Otabek had met him briefly; long enough to decide no one ever need tell the Northern princes that they were being outdone in protectiveness by a mere human. The parade led the way through the nine sacred gates of the city, each of them lit overhead by a stream of fire, and then up a hill overlooking Shen-Osheth’s prized position along the bay. At the front were the Southrons, followed by the small party from the West.

It was not lost on Otabek that the Westerners marched with an uncharacteristic stoicness, though some kept looking back as the processional wove through the city, glancing surreptitiously at Viktor, who led the Northern court, carrying a torch of his own. He and Yuri were resplendent in their cloaks and there was no mistaking the thin silver circlets they both wore for the occasion, marks of the rank Yakov and Lilia had been careful to never let their sons forget.

The Easterlings were last. As the throng began to climb the hill, Leo chanced a glance backwards — not just to keep an eye on the Northern princes uncomfortably at his back — Yuri’s presence was understandable, but why had Viktor taken it upon himself to accompany his brother on the wheel? He could not look at them for long, and shifted his attention to the rest of the crowd, interspersed with torches of the procession leaders of each kingdom and the subtle glow of dozens of different familiars jumping and flying forward. Interspersed on the climb were drummers who beat the same driving rhythms in a perfect unison. It lifted his spirits enough to release his own lion, which emerged in a wave of golden light next to him to join the upwards prowl.

At the top of the hill was an ancient circle of stones and three large fire pits piled high with dried wood, yellow broom and sweet-smelling herbs. Sara, Guang Hong, and Michele separated, standing near each of the stacks, and they waited there as the processional made it up the hill and revelers spread around each of the piles of flame in a sweeping circle. The percussionists, each of them carrying their own drum in a sling harness, followed, climbing up on the stone ledges. The pace of the drumbeat quickened, and the three Southrons who’d led the processional each bent to light one of the three great bonfires: Sara and Michele each dropped their torches to the base, and Guang Hong’s crow flew overhead as a ball of flame emerged in his hand and then leapt to light the third bonfire.

Fire and smoke billowed upwards and suddenly the rest of the Easterling court leapt over the far end of the short stone walls; some of them bearing horns, lyres, and lutes to add to the music. The others waved long streamers of green, gold, and red, and as the sweet smell of smoke rose overhead they spread around the circle, grabbing revelers from the four kingdoms to begin the summer dance.

After that, everything was the best kind of chaos. Mead ran freely from a pile of large wooden barrels stacked outside of the circle, and there were large casks of wine, some of the city’s best chefs lined up to provide the evening’s food, a feast nearly as large as dinner had been. Dancers twisted their way around each of the three fires, moving from east to west. One of the Southrons had come to fetch Yuri, sending him into the circles with the rest of the others who were working to complete the wheel.

Viktor could not be left to watch a dance for terribly long before he failed to join it, and soon the two princes wove through opposite ends of the weaving revelers. Lilia’s hand in their training was all-too apparent: Viktor and the stag glided through the dance flawlessly, never to stumble on a strange patch of grass or to bump into another dancer. It was, no doubt, captivating; very few of the elves had not managed to ignore the presence of royalty at this year’s festival.

Otabek redirected his attention to the gentle canter of the white unicorn staying to the outside of the throng of dancers, and found himself smiling subtle as it came around the nearest corner. It was Yuri’s hand reaching out under the arc of the horse’s neck that was the real surprise; quick fingers clenched around his wrist to pull him into the dance.

“Where’s your wyvern?”

“No sense intimidating anyone,” Otabek murmured, raising a brow at Yuri’s answering frown.

“Tell me you dance at least.”

“Not in any way that would please the Queen of the elves,” Otabek murmured with wry bemusement, thinking of the rigidity with which Lilia adhered to the old traditions, the ancient dances.

Yuri was in no way deterred. “Show me.”

The Prince got an answering grin in return as Otabek twisted their fingers into a knot. “Try and keep up.”

They passed the Easterlings; the halfling was gone, and Seung-gil’s black eyes met his, impassive. For the first time Otabek wondered whether or not he was really fixing a rift, or if this: Yuri’s hand in his, their interplay of light and dark, was a betrayal of the ancients.

He did not have the answer. Yuri spun in front of him, wisps of light creeping up his arms.

The ancients were dead and gone, the war of the first age long lost. All they had was the gift of the present.

- - -

Drinking had been Phichit’s idea. Dancing had been Phichit’s idea first, but with the dry heat of the flames and the heady, sweet-smelling smoke, refreshments were evidently necessary. Two cups of mead later, even Yuuri could admit he felt more carefree. Overhead the phoenix flew in joyful, sweeping loops. “One more,” said Phichit cheerfully, thrusting another cup into Yuuri’s hand, and clinking their mugs together with a sloppy clink.

“Phichit, I would like to be able to remember tomorrow …”

“That makes one of us,” quipped the Southron, grinning unrepentantly. “Look how happy your bird is, Yuuri, and relax a little bit.” That was true, had always been true. Yuuri still remembered his first trip to Shen-Osheth, when he’d first met his southern friends, and though Beltane was a festival that was never precisely the same way twice there was no forgetting the heady rush of the music and smoke, or the mesmerizing rise and fall of the flames. “Now drink up.”

After that, Yuuri made excuses about making an offering and promising to catch up later as Phichit made his way back towards the dance. His fingers tingled, giving off telltale sparks of gold and scarlet. Passing back through the revel, he caught sight of a familiar streak of silver hair. At each of the four cardinal directions, big cradles of fire had been lit, and piles of dried yellow flowers lay on the ground to be added as fuel to the flames. These were the fires meant to promise the constant rise of the sun, and in their heat, all harmful influence, all evil, all regret … these things, darknesses little and great, could all be burnt away.

Viktor picked up a stalk of the dried, yellow flowers, and held them up to his nose to inhale their honey scent. Then, with an expression Yuuri thought read a little bit like regret, he tossed them into the climbing, hungry flames, blue eyes fixed on the rising column of sweet smoke. He’d seen Viktor dancing earlier, too; about a full quarter turn ahead in the revel. In Viktor’s steps, Yuuri had been able to read an art that was older that Minako’s, Lilia’s work, no doubt.

It had been flawless and perfect and mesmerizing.

And yet he moved between the revelers, amongst them but not really with them. On the ship the storm’s lightning and thunder had burst cracks in his mien, had let the light shine through.

Undeterred in his original purpose, Yuuri crept around the circle to the Eastern cauldron, picking up a bundle of the dried flowers. The phoenix landed on his shoulder, and Yuuri tossed the flowers into the burning flames.

“What did you wish for?” Seung-gil, leaning against a nearby wall. Yuuri had only ever seen Seung-gil dancing once, and it had been back when he’d needed to complete the wheel, when Phichit had come forward and dragged the banshee and his hellhound out to the circle whilst simultaneously ignoring any signs of resistance or protest.

Yuuri sighed heavily and looked overhead. The heady, sweet smoke had spread so far and so thick that he couldn’t see the stars.

“I think you know.”

- - -

I don’t have those kinds of expectations … they breed resentment, don’t you think?

Why the banshee’s words were coming back to haunt him precisely now, Viktor couldn’t be entirely sure. He’d chosen to ignore the increasing closeness between the banshee Captain and his brother; had carefully blocked all thoughts of the ribbons of shadow and light magic that followed them around the revel away from Yakov or Lilia, distant echoes across the connections that knit their family together.

Truthfully he’d been looking for the halfling fire-mage. A few days before Beltane it had occurred to Viktor that perhaps here, amongst all of the lit fires, the torches, the fireworks; Yuuri might let himself go, might reveal more than just the secret Viktor had stumbled upon that early morning all those moons ago. So far, though, the Easterling had alluded him, which was discomfiting: usually nothing evaded Viktor, once he bent his thoughts towards it.

Except he hadn’t really been considering Yuuri, standing in front of the offering cauldron; not fully. He’d been thinking about the past; the subtle accusations of half-heartedness that followed him. Even the halfling had pointed out the parts of himself held apart.

I’m protecting myself, he thought, glancing warily towards the stag, and then moving to climb one of the stone walls for a slightly elevated view of the throng of revelers. No one had given chase tonight. By now the war was an old story and his legend went in front of him. Perhaps nobody would give chase again.

Hadn’t that been exactly what he wanted?

Invincibility. Viktor had climbed to a place so high that nobody could reach him, and in doing so he’d forgotten that it meant nobody could touch him, either. Off in a distant darkness a flicker of red and gold caught his eye and Viktor smiled to himself. Of course. Yuuri, too, had flown away from the crowd.

He jumped down and strode away, leaving the revel behind him completely.

- - -

A ribbon of fire leapt outwards from Yuuri’s hand as he leapt over the grass, keeping time with the song he could still hear in the distance as his arms rose overhead, only distantly recalling the words Minako had put to any of her instructions; words like pirouette or arabesque. The phoenix raced after the orange streamer of fire, darting between each magical ray in a rapid, tight spiral that flew and floated around Yuuri like multiple moons in orbit.

Even as Yuuri himself flew, springing into a backwards arc that carried him through an aerial, surrounded by a subtle, ever-flickering glow not unlike the tongues of flame which had burnt their way up the bonfire: sometimes scarlet, sometimes bronze.

Viktor could not stop staring.

A very small part of his brain was analyzing the steps, cataloguing every twist and turn and flip of the halfling’s body as he moved through the dance, surrounded by the burst and sweep of his familiar. There were echoes here that he recognized. Minako’s work, no doubt, but Viktor knew the original: a lover’s dance Lilia had taught him an age ago, before everything had gotten twisted and bent.

This was derivative, but not in a bad way. As though the first dance had been put into a forge for refining, and emerged startling and different, but also strangely purified and stronger. The stag leapt into the fray before he did, an unconsciously made decision that was probably unwise. Yuuri had once spent far too much time braving a rainstorm that had nearly flooded and overwhelmed his magic, and here Viktor was,  contemplating what it would be like to step into that heat, and let himself be awash with its light.

What he’d seen outside of Hasetsuil from a distance had only been a hint. Seen from a distance, it had been impressive but vague, like staring into a cloudy mirror, or looking into a wayseeing stone just before the connective vision of them began to clear.

This was.

This was.

It was something Viktor did not have words for, and he strode purposefully forward, ignoring the pain of regret that sprang up when Yuuri finally realized he was there, and sprang to a sudden halt, flustered and red-faced and no-doubt scrambling to build up another one of his subtle smoke-screens. “Dance with me,” Viktor said, quite suddenly and perfectly aware that he’d never wanted anything quite as badly as he wanted this.

Something in Yuuri did battle in the darks of his eyes and Viktor watched it, fascinated. “… You’re supposed to ask,” the halfling murmured, tilting his chin up as the phoenix darted overhead. The white stag reared up and gave chase and Viktor found himself smiling; not the polite smile or even the charming one.

Viktor held a hand out, repeated himself, would have begged if necessary: “Please,” said the high Prince of the elves, who was going to repent of all of the ways in which he’d assumed he already understood beauty:

“Please, will you dance with me?”

Those two sides of the halfling fought again and one of them lost swiftly. Yuuri’s hand was warm and dry in his own. “Yes.”

This, Yuuri realized afterwards, though he had no idea if it was seconds or minutes or hours; this is different. Around every golden sweep of magic there drifted a silver one; for every burst of crimson, pure azure blue. In the crowd Viktor had been beyond everyone else, unreachable. Effortlessly so. Viktor was with him here, devastatingly present. Viktor whose eyes had narrowed subtly at the challenge it presented to braid their magic together; to keep the balance just-so, lest the water smother the flame or the heat evaporate each stream. The gold and pale silver twined more tightly, as close as the brush of their racing guardians, and then there was their bodies: together and apart, so perfectly in sync that Yuuri forgot who it was who’d started the dance and abandoned any idea whatsoever of finishing it.

For one perfect, stretching moment, there was no leader, no follower.

Viktor caught Yuuri by the waist, drew him close, ran a thumb over the soft curve of the halfling’s mouth. Platinum strands of hair had fallen out of his ponytail, stuck to his face, and yet his touch felt cool and soft. Yuuri felt feverish by compare. Dizzy and heady, because there was no escaping the brilliant blue of Viktor’s gaze and what came next was as inevitable as the tides. “I would like to kiss you, Yuuri Katsuki.”

He replied without thinking, all instinct, heat, and nerve. This was someplace beyond thought. “I would like to let you.”

Viktor’s kiss was an invitation, an intoxication, a siren-song. Come and drown, it whispered.

Yuuri’s kiss tasted like spices and cinnamon, and it blossomed like sunrise: first with soft hesitancy, and then ascendant, ablaze. Come and burn, it sang.

Silver and gold snapped and sparkled around them both, twining around the lock of their fingers, the press of their bodies. For a moment Viktor thought he almost heard a heartbeat, racing faster than his own, and then suddenly as the Beltane fireworks went off in the distance Yuuri pushed back.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered then, and Viktor opened his eyes for a second shock: knots of his own magic, silver and white and a very pale blue, still twisting around Yuuri’s hands.

Did I lose myself that much?

“I can’t,” Yuuri stammered, urgently, as though there was something he was willing Viktor to understand but would not explain. “I have to go.”

He fled and Viktor did not stop him, Viktor who was staring down at his hands, and the slowly evaporating flickers of gold, tell-tale signs of what had nearly just occurred. One dance, one kiss, and he’d nearly started the strange magic that eventually knit two people together, drunk on the sparks between them, the neat synchronicity of their dance: the very first steps of a soulbond.

Yuuri, too. That had been Yuuri’s heartbeat, for a moment, drumming in Viktor’s ears faster than anything he’d ever heard before.

Yuuri, who was fire and heat and who’d made Viktor feel alive again, leaving with nothing more than a shattering I can’t.

- - -

Across the family soulbond Yuri felt a strange surge of brilliance from Viktor, and stepped out of the dance, dragged Otabek with him, looked around for Viktor. No sign of him was to be seen.

Vitya?

No answer, either, just a strange, persistent incandescence. Yuri slumped against Otabek’s shoulder, suddenly tired; they’d danced for a very long time, and then they’d gotten drinks, and then they’d danced again. At one point Yuri’d said something, he couldn’t even remember what, and Otabek had thrown his head back and laughed, and something strange and bubbly had seized Yuri’s chest, made him crave more of whatever it was that showed him what Beka really was. “Have you seen my brother?”

Otabek, to his credit, looked up and around, silent for several moments before answering with a slight shake of his head, readying himself to go and look for the evidently-missing Prince.

“No, leave him.” Whatever it was that had briefly made Viktor so happy was something Yuri did not want to interrupt. It was fading now; but not in a bad way: the full weight of Viktor’s thoughts had gone elsewhere, far away from the family’s link. “… Want to make an offering?”

“You’ll forgive me,” Otabek teased with a straight face that Yuri certainly would’ve misread weeks before, lifting a palm full of shadows, “for not wanting to wish away the darkness.”

“… Well,” Yuri admitted, thinking about it for the first time, “maybe not so much. Your kind of darkness can stay. I’m going to make one.” Wine had made him talkative; a faint blush colored his high cheekbones and he smiled more easily. “I’ve got good things to wish for.”

“Such as?”

“Secret things,” said Yuri, rewarded with a chuckle, and it was easier than it should have been to drag Otabek with him once more, to burn flowers in the cauldron of the North. They drank some more, and danced, and when the fireworks burst overhead, a tiny sliver of Yuri realized he couldn’t feel Viktor at all. He’d been thinking about the protective drape of Otabek’s arm, and the way the unicorn had stayed with them for much of the night before shying away from the crowds.

At the end of Beltane, revelers lit candles in the dying streaks of the bonfires, and walked them back down to Shen-Osheth, a hundred different lights carried down the hill in the deep purple light that marked the hour just before dawn.

Yuri and Otabek came back together, Otabek making a game out of the shapes of the flickering shadows each tiny flame cast while they walked, and having finally released the wyvern to fly overhead, nothing more than the feeling of a cold wind and a large pair of black wings that blocked out the stars.

In the Northern guest house, Viktor stood alone on the balcony, with no candle of his own, staring long and hard at the cradle of his two hands, running a thumb back and forth over the deepest line in his palm.

“Viktor?”

Yuri received no answer. Otabek extinguished his candle and pulled the wyvern into nothingness once more, and then let himself inside. He knew when to make himself scarce.

Vitya?

… Yura?

Viktor looked up at him then, and even in the low light of pre-dawn a revelation Yuri wasn’t prepared for hit him, sharp and strong as a kick to the stomach. Had his brother, untouchable, charmed Viktor, been crying?

Whatever it was, Viktor’s eyes were maudlin storms and turbulent seas, and they gave him away. A dozen different questions lodged in Yuri’s throat as he tentatively felt across the bond, and flinched at the ache he was presented with.

What had changed in a handful of hours? How had he not noticed?

Not once in his life had Yuri ever been in the situation of needing to offer comfort to his brother. It was impossible to even imagine. He stepped forward carefully, and stood up on tiptoe to tuck errant strands of Viktor’s hair back behind his ears; thought of his childhood, when his picture of his brother had been simpler and purer; when he’d first been learning how to use magic, how to fight, and he’d made a thousand different mistakes. Sometimes Viktor had been hard and stern, like Yakov, trying to make him better, but sometimes; every so often, he’d been gentle and kind too, opened up his arms, gave hugs and picked Yuri up to swing him through the air as consolation.

One of those things he certainly could not do, but the other: Yuri enveloped his brother in a fierce hug. Questions could wait.

Viktor all but folded into him, an impossibility in and of itself. Viktor, who was certainly crying again now if he hadn’t been before.

Viktor, the lucky one.

…

Something had beaten him. Something had broken.