the horizon you ride towards
Two days after Lughnasadh, 1017 II Age
The Northerners made plans to leave Vaux Romandith behind sooner than the other revelers; Yuuri said his goodbyes with some regret to Kenjirou and Yuuko, who would travel later, along with the new Prince and his Steward, after Guang Hong’s court was temporarily settled, on the normal cycle of the Wheel. Phichit was cheerful, operating under the assumption that the only reason for a swift departure was Yuuri’s impending introduction to Viktor’s parents. They’ll love you! How could they not love you? Best dress up just in case, though, he’d chirped all the way through breakfast: I hear Yakov’s a menace. Then, reading Yuuri’s wince, he’d tried to make up for it: Evidently Lilia likes dancing?
He had not been so oblivious to not read the subtle shifts in the group’s mood, though, and as they left he climbed up to a low branch overhanging Vaux Romandith’s northern exit, leading to the King’s Road:
“You look after him, Viktor, you hear me?”
Viktor turned to look back, inclined his head, eyes serious as the grave: I intend to.
The King’s Road wound steadily northwards, running alongside a long, lazy river flowing down from the mountains. First they cleared the woods, and then gradually these thinned, leading to sweeping green valleys where placid sheep grazed, and wild horses ran, and both generally ignored the travelers who rode North at an easy pace. This was a path Viktor had traveled more than all of the others, and as they rode, he pointed out landmarks, told stories. They made camp the first night in a circle of stones too perfectly formed to be any accident. “My mother thinks the first schools of magic were here,” Viktor murmured, sweeping his fingers over shapeless stone, half-archways now crumbling. “Ancient libraries that weren’t preserved…”
“Why is that?”
“Everything back then was oral history,” Otabek murmured, tossing a log onto the campfire. Fresh sparks flickered, making Seung-gil’s hellhound raise one of its three heads to snap at embers of flame. “… Easy to remember when you’re going to live forever,” he added thoughtfully, with a glance towards Seung-gil, already stretched out on a bedroll nearby, pretending like he wasn’t listening.
Viktor tilted his head, acknowledgment of the theory. “Still. We have some artifacts of the past,” he murmured, and his eyes took on a softer light, the way they tended to whenever Viktor was contemplating something he found beautiful. It was a look usually reserved for the ocean and, lately, for Yuuri of Katsuki House when he slept, when he danced, and especially in those moments when he revealed the truest parts of himself, certain that nobody was looking. “I’ll show you when we get there,” he murmured, and took off his cloak, draping it over Yuuri’s shoulders as he came to sit nearby on the grass. Yuuri looked up, surprised, and Viktor’s smile grew a little sad, anxiety creeping into the corners of his eyes. “You were shivering,” he explained quietly. “Move a little closer to the fire. I won’t get cold.”
“… I’m nervous about meeting them,” Yuuri admitted, as though that had been the reason for the chill. Still, he did as Viktor asked, and Viktor followed, settling him easily into the hollow of his chest, between his long legs. He’d become, quickly, so … so … public about them, and yet his court had acclimated swiftly: Mila talked to Yuuri easily, like he was one of the Northerners, and Georgi was making an effort, happy to see his Prince so at ease, even if he sometimes looked at the two of them with a sort of pain, a strange nostalgia that Yuuri knew had nothing to do with him or, for that matter, with Viktor. Even Yuri had shared his lunch, insisted he eat in that brusque, careless way of his.
“Neither one of them is in the habit of making things easy,” Viktor murmured thoughtfully, flashing a wry smile. In one moment he’d acknowledged the rightness of the halfling’s fears, and in the next he was trying to sweep them away, brushing his lips against Yuuri’s neck. “I’m not worried, though. They love me, and I love you.”
“Ugh,” Yuri grumbled from across the circle. “Are we going to have to listen to this all week?”
“No,” Viktor hummed, the picture of innocence, and then he decided to spare his brother public humiliation in front of their friends, looking up with a smirk. I imagine later this week we’ll be turning our attention to how you’re going to explain why you keep sitting next to the Captain of the Guard, who happens to be a banshee, Yura. Rewarded with the blonde’s blossoming scowl, he flashed his heart-shaped grin: “Care to start practicing now?”
“I’d throw something at you if I was sure it wouldn’t accidentally hit the halfling,” Yuri grumbled, which was the closest thing he’d come to a compliment of Yuuri, who was already nearly dozing, lulled by the echoing answer of Viktor’s heartbeat in his ears; like his entire being was a question and Viktor’s steady heart the perfect response, singing: yes, yes, yes.
- - -
Five days after Lughnasadh, 1017 II Age
It began to rain halfway to Ast Petyriel, and still they rode onwards. Yuuri banished his phoenix, but Viktor’s stag rode among them, nearly corporeal in the center of a circle of riders. Viktor hardly paid attention to his horse, letting it follow his brother’s lead, shifting the water overhead to other places as they traveled steadily Northeast. He was soaked through-and-through; his silver hair clung to his forehead, to his shoulders, and still, every so often, he threw his head back and smiled up at the rain. Beautiful was a word that came into Yuuri’s thoughts often, though he so far had resisted the urge to beg to stop, the twitch in his fingers that wanted to wipe raindrops off of Viktor’s high cheekbones, or to comb through the wet tangles of his hair. Instead, he rode on in companionable silence, almost perfectly dry, something Yuri had remarked on with withering sarcasm on nearly an hourly basis.
“Viktor,” Yuuri explained, exasperated, “I can handle a little rain.”
Viktor pursed his lips for a moment, slightly thoughtful, and then smirked to himself. A single burst of rainfall fell through the array he’d been holding up to keep the others, and particularly Yuuri, dry, not at all unlike a wave splashed over the lake. “Hey!”
“What,” Viktor asked, ignoring both Mila’s bright laugh as well as his brother’s snicker. He reached over to ruffle Yuuri’s hair, slicking his bangs back and away from his face. “You said you could handle it.”
- - -
Eight days after Lugnasadh, 1017 II Age
The landscape changed. Green vales gave way to a steady climb into the foothills, wooded forests with evergreens and aspens and pines. Yuuri hardly recalled his last trip; in the fall the aspens turned golden and he’d thought them beautiful but beautiful as though seen through a very cloudy mirror: he’d been too sick to appreciate them properly. It was too early for the change now, but according to Viktor they’d be staying in his mother’s house for some time, and so perhaps he’d get to witness the way winter crept in from the palace at Ast Petyriel for once. A pair of trumpeters welcomed them through the city’s large gates; stonework that was reminiscent of Yakov’s magic but was likely of Lilia’s design, wrought as a gift in her honor. Viktor had already described his favorite parts of his mother’s city over and over; though he’d spent his more recent years in Mosciren with Yakov, and was terribly fond of the glaciers beyond Mosciren peaks, a strange light in his eyes suggested that Ast Petyriel felt more like home.
As they passed through, Viktor and Yuri lowered their hoods, and cobblestone streets of scholars and mages cleared to make way for the two Princes. Here, people stopped to acknowledge them both; to clasp a hand over their hearts and bow. Of course, thought Yuuri, watching as Viktor’s face became something more polished, but also more withdrawn: he’ll be their leader someday.
… and he wants you here, too. It was a stark reminder, a sudden, heavy weight that made his breath catch in his throat and not just because he needed to stop to admire the mix of stone and woodcraft here; the fine archways, the high domes, the way the entire city had come to being within the whim of the forest, with pockets of green everywhere. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t even notice when they came to a stop. “Idiot,” Yuri grumbled, “get off your horse. We’re at the stables.”
A flicker of something like curiosity, familiar, drew Yuuri back into the present as he dismounted. It felt like Mari, who so frequently left him to his own devices, and in spite of his present concerns he thought for a moment of his own home; of Hasetsuil, of sunrise over the ocean, of the gentle, simple smiles of both of his parents and the hearth-warmth of family. Viktor moved closer, twined their fingers together, and Yuuri found himself staring at their hands. He was here, now, in the Northern Kingdom. Viktor was perfectly serious about walking him through the high street like this, up and into Lilia’s estate. “Relax,” he said gently, and leaned over to kiss Yuuri’s temple. “I have a surprise for you.”
He couldn’t stop himself: “What is it?”
Viktor’s blue eyes twinkled. “Wait and see.”
The street itself was fashioned out of an incredible mosaic, routinely swept free of falling pine needles, and it wound a short distance between wooden structures with multiple rising domes to the sprawling estate at the end of the street, its high doorways fashioned in stained glass and protected by another set of mage-guards. While they walked Viktor directed his attention idly towards the other buildings on the street; the forum, for instance, where Lilia taught her students and had once instructed Minako; the library, so well-known in all the four Kingdoms. He was so preoccupied absorbing this information that he didn’t notice the cluster waiting for them at the palace until someone shouted his own name.
“Yuuri!”
… Mom?
Later nobody would be certain whose footfalls came first, though it was Yuuri who closed the most distance, found himself absorbed into the soft embrace of Hiroko and Toshiya’s arms. A triangle of observers stood at points around this circle: Mari, who was the closest, leaning in to lay a hand on her younger brother’s shoulder; Lilia, with sharp green eyes that saw everything, including the way Viktor stood a little bit off to the side staring at this family reunion with a subtle longing and quiet envy.
Lilia also saw the way Toshiya and Hiroko broke off to acknowledge her son, to bow — (“you bow to no one,” Viktor had protested, because they were Yuuri’s parents, because their son bore the phoenix) — the way Hiroko nonetheless still broke protocols by coming forward to reach up and touch Viktor’s face. It changed his entire mien, this quiet acceptance, and then the halfling he’d chosen came forward with an embrace that was sudden and fierce and the whole lot of them repeated the entire circle. The lot of them were too short to completely engulf the Prince, but she hadn’t needed to see his surprise, or the way his smile changed; Vitya was her son before he was anything else, and Lilia could feel it.
He was nowhere near as surprised as his lover, though, the halfling who’d burrowed into his chest. “How did you — why — “
Viktor smiled, gratified; Yuuri’s family had kept the secret, and kept it well: they’d come here on an outlandish story given via his word and his mother’s request, and then they’d surrounded him, accepted him instantaneously and without question. Yuuri was not going to be given nearly so easy a time. Not once in his life had Viktor ever envied the simpler life enjoyed by anyone who wasn’t nobility, until Hiroko of Hasetsuil touched the side of his face, until he’d found himself surrounded by the people who’d loved Yuuri long before he’d known to do so. “I asked Lilia for a summons when we spoke on the wayseeing stone,” he explained warmly, as Yuuri’s fingers curled into his cloak, pulled him somehow closer.
“Tch,” muttered Yuri, standing next to Lilia, but he was fighting a smile: how sentimental. Still, he leaned over to kiss his mother’s high cheek. Missed you, mama.
Lilia’s hand fell on his shoulder, squeezed it, and she said little else. The family link filled in for the absence of her words; an abiding fondness for her younger son, even if it came severe or sharp, and a patient curiosity that would eventually demand answers, for the elder.
“Mother,” Viktor said, once he’d extricated himself properly from Easterling arms, smiling in a way that she’d not seen for decades. It made her think of a boy she’d seen darting through these trees once, before he’d become so aware of his father’s expectations, before he’d gotten his heart broken the first time, before he’d decided to strive for invulnerability, for legend. Across the bond of their family his heart surged, even if an answering rumble from Yakov promised something like trouble. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Yuuri. Yuuri, this is my mother, Lilia.”
The Queen of the Elves. Empress of Winter. Steward of the ancient library of Ast Petyriel. Vitya bypassed the titles simply through the deference in his tone; the name Lilia carried itself.
Yuuri, the halfling who made her son smile his original smile, turned and looked at her wide-eyed and nervous, all awe and careful dread. He seemed to make a concentrated effort to summon his manners, to replicate the Northerner’s bow, and Lilia shook her head sternly.
“My son has already declared your family bows to no one, Yuuri. I will not make him a liar today.”
- - -
Someone else took all their possessions inside. Spend the day with your family, Viktor insisted, offering a passing kiss on the cheek. I’ll be at the library. Mother would like to see you later, in the forum. So Yuuri had: he’d learned that Lilia had housed his parents and his sister within her own estate, and that they’d flown up on the eagles, and, in one of the best surprises of the day, that even Vicchan had remained.
“He wouldn’t stay behind,” Mari explained, smoothing the feathers of the eagle who’d carried her all this way. “He must’ve suspected we were coming for you.”
Yuuri saw himself reflected in the big, dark circles of Vicchan’s eyes, gave the great eagle a hug of its own, settled in under the sweep of one wing. “Go for a flight,” Hiroko suggested. “We’ll be here when you get back.”
So this was what he and Mari had done, circling the great forest of evergreens from above, darting through the shafts of light that poked through the clouds that lingered from the storm they’d ridden in under. So … Viktor? How did that even …?
I don’t know, Yuuri admitted, honestly, and then perhaps because he didn’t have to speak, like this, to think things through, he let his thoughts drift back to the Ardor, to Beltane, to the Sunset Road. At first I thought it was called falling in love because it happens so unconsciously, like love is something that happens to you, but at Lughnasadh everything was different. At Lughnasadh there’d been no secrets, just their extended hands and a choice. Maybe the first part was a hope. Now it’s a choice.
Mari listened, thought little in return, but in their family bond he felt Toshiya’s pride and Hiroko’s love and his sister’s determined support. They flew on in companionable silence until the sun was low in the sky, prompting Yuuri to remember his promise to meet Lilia at the forum. … It’ll hurt him, when you go.
I know, Yuuri thought, circling down to dismount, and then to fondly pat Vicchan’s beak from the ground. How do you put up with it, now?
“Knowing it’s coming is half the battle,” Mari hummed quietly, though it was something he knew his sister didn’t like to talk about. “Knowing you’ll be back, too.”
- - -
Lilia awaited him in an empty courtyard of the forum, dotted with statues of the heroes of old, seated in front of a large loom where she was at work making a new tapestry. Yuuri’d seen others like it, briefly, in the estate; older ones that told the story of the young age and the first age, celebrated the high culture of the aes sidhe. They were beautiful, intricate things; the familiars in them looked as though they were still alive, and up close he’d been able to read the noble expressions of the aes sidhe of all the stories, on the tragic fall of their mortality, of the warning song of their pride, of their terrible, misguided war. “I spoke to Minako about you at some length,” she admitted coolly, as Yuuri stepped inside. “My former pupil says you’re a student of our high arts?”
“… I am,” murmured Yuuri, not certain what else he should say to this woman, so severe and so proud; Ast Petyriel’s sage and its muse.
“Show me,” Lilia commanded, and his lips almost twitched. At the start of the year Viktor had been the same: had wrapped all of his questions up as sentences, expected his answers. Except there was the reality of his magic, already waning, and the sheer terror that he might disappoint. That he could cast ribbons of flame for this woman, and dance until his feet were blistered, and still she might look at Viktor with those citrine eyes and say you have chosen poorly.
“I’m not at my best, this time of year,” he added, cautiously, trying to breathe in time with the distant thrum of Viktor’s resting pulse.
“She told me you would say that,” said Lilia archly. “She also said it wouldn’t matter.”
Yuuri exhaled and closed his eyes, and then he swept his arms overhead, gold and red flickering to life in his palms. Perhaps if he kept his eyes closed he could envision this was Minako’s studio instead, where he went long after the other students were gone, practiced magic in peace and privacy, danced to clear out his own head.
“No, no, no.” Lilia’ interrupted him, and Yuuri floundered to a stop mid-spin, bent over to cough and clear the lingering phlegm in his chest. She waited for this much, at least. “Don’t just go through the motions, child.” Child, she said, which he supposed was a fair distinction, given the centuries of difference that yawned between their ages. “I’ve seen Minako’s work plenty of times. You wish me to believe that you love my son, yes? Show me what you’ve discovered since meeting Vitya. Show me what you found at Beltane.”
Yuuri paused, at the very precipice of refusing, and then he let his thoughts drift back to Viktor, to Vitya, to what he’d told Mari earlier about falling and about choice. He began again, from that place, considering the astonishing, odds-defying fact of Viktor’s love. Viktor, whose blue eyes were more enthralling than any art he’d see in Ast Petyriel; Viktor, whose every smile was a new variation on the word perfect.
Every so often he felt the subtle brush of one of her hands, checking the extension of his arms, and then, coming to a slow stop, chest heaving for breath, magic fading, Yuuri felt the need to bend over, palms resting on his knees, to slowly sink to the ground to sit. Lilia’s expression seemed as unchanged as the noble statues he’d seen throughout the city, as the ancient elves of the tapestries, and yet she was regarding him differently now. “Very good,” she murmured. “So that was Beltane?”
“No,” Yuuri replied weakly, catching his breath, a hand over his chest, “that was Lughnasadh.”
- - -
It was terribly late when he found Viktor in the library, seated at an oversized wooden desk, hunched over the latest in a large pile of scrolls. The Prince’s hair was loose, and his expression weary, and he jumped when Yuuri’s hands slid over his shoulders, relaxed subtly as Yuuri brushed his hair aside, kissed the nape of his neck. “We missed you at dinner.”
“I had them bring something here,” said Viktor, which Yuuri could see for himself: the plate had gone mostly untouched, the meal itself an afterthought to whatever it was Viktor was looking for and had not yet found. A cure. A way to make sure you don’t die. He stretched, now, and turned to face Yuuri with a tired smile that must’ve mirrored Yuuri’s own. “You’ve made an impression on mother,” he added, and the smile stretched a little, trying to grow bigger, but it also flickered the way a candle might’ve in a storm. In his eyes there was a sea of doubts, and Yuuri knew without asking that this first day of research had proved fruitless.
He debated saying something encouraging, but Viktor knew better than almost anyone the enormity of Ast Petyriel’s library, of the tomes and books Lilia kept. Had he already sent his mother through its archives, Yuuri wondered, and was looking now for himself, unwilling to surrender to fate?
“Your family,” Yuuri murmured instead, because it was more honest, “is exhausting.” That, at least, earned him the reward of Viktor’s laugh, brittle though it was, and he bent over for a kiss, put himself within the loose circle of Viktor’s arms.
“Two down and one to go,” Viktor chuckled mirthlessly, and Yuuri nosed closer, let his hands run along the Prince’s forearms.
At first he said nothing, thinking of the afternoon’s flight and the evening’s trial. “Come back to the house,” Yuuri said softly, as the Phoenix came to life, perched on his shoulder, as subtle washes of gold bled over his fingertips. “Enough reading for one day.”
“I need — there’s still a lot to go through, I want to stay here —“ I said I would spare you from this. I am going to spare you. Yet the halfling moved closer, straddled him on the chair, hungry for something closer than the loose embrace Viktor had held him in so half-heartedly. The whispers of gold pooling in Yuuri’s hands bloomed, spread softly over Viktor’s arms, and Viktor looked up sharply. “Yuuri, I’m not tired, I don’t need energy —“
“That,” Yuuri remarked pointedly, as his own magic drew backwards, retreated to his palms, “is not what I’m doing.”
What else, then? … Oh. The bond between them had been Viktor’s initiative both times; desperation at Beltane and purpose in Lughnasadh, and here was Yuuri, trying to deepen it in a way he’d been so careful to avoid, waiting for Ast Petyriel, for their families, for the perfect moment when he walked out of this room with a book and a cure, the future assured.
“I won’t stop you from looking,” Yuuri added, pressing his lips to Viktor’s cheek. “I just want you to remember that I’m still here now.”
Viktor turned his head, suddenly unsatisfied with just the passing brush of Yuuri’s mouth. This kiss was longer and deeper and he didn’t need to open his eyes to understand the answering wisps of silver and white in his hands, his acquiescence. “Nobody could forget you, Yuuri,” he whispered, and then he moved to shift the halfling’s weight, to stand. Properly chastised, Viktor remembered the promise of his own room, waiting for them both, and how he’d sworn he’d show Yuuri around his home, to direct him to all of the places that he loved most. “I’ll take you home.”
They walked hand-in-hand back to Lilia’s estate, through the stained glass doors now dark and nearly colorless at night, back to Viktor’s room. There the ordinary things happened, domestic habits that had formed somewhere on the road together: changing into sleep clothes, washing up, and then Yuuri found himself sitting opposite Viktor on the bed, cross-legged. “Vitya,” he asked, because it was usually Viktor who did all the asking, and it was selfish, perhaps, to keep wanting this, to keep choosing it in spite of what was coming as soon as winter set. “Are you sure?”
Viktor said nothing, but held out an open hand, awash in argentine and azure. Yuuri took it, vermillion and gold, and then he pressed a palm to Viktor’s chest, just over his heart. Viktor’s fingers, cool and steady, did the same, and he closed his eyes to listen, to feel, to sink further into this strange, ancient magic.
“Your heartbeat is always so fast,” Viktor murmured quietly, though he’d known it was different, between all the races; the part of Yuuri he could sense now, that pulse, was always a quick flutter in his ears, sometimes nearly twice the rate of his own.
“… Yours is always so steady,” Yuuri replied, and his fingers curled briefly against Viktor’s skin, and Viktor allowed himself the pleasure of studying the halfling’s face, his closed eyes, his semi-smile. Soon he, too, felt a little adrift between the wash of magic, their two pulses, and he found himself thinking back to mid-morning, to the way Yuuri’s family had willingly embraced him without asking anything in return.
He fell into it then, something soft and warm and abiding, something like summer sunshine and the promise of home. At its edges were Yuuri’s worries and cares; his inadequacies and his terror of the legacy Viktor was bringing him into but these were small things, fragile and weak in comparison to the first: to the wash of heat that bent towards him and was choosing him, even now.
This is what Yuuri’s love is like.
Yuuri felt the churning waves of Viktor’s doubt; his fear of loss; the heavy mantle of leadership. Underneath these curls of surface concerns lingered something vast and deep and wide, powerful as winter storms and yet perfectly like the sea out at its furthest horizon, where it was cerulean tranquility, assured and inevitable, poised and perfect. All of this waited for him, promised to uphold him, to let him lie adrift and at ease in it: this sweep of currents that bent in his direction, wrapped around him in power and in safety.
This is what Viktor’s love is like.
He crept closer as the magic settled, hypnotized by the fresh wash of these feelings; what Viktor felt, what Yuuri felt.
They kissed until they were too tired to kiss; fell asleep in a lover’s knot.
Every time he thought he’d begun to take the measure of this love it grew bigger.
- - -
In the morning Viktor woke first, his head already heavy with expectation and something firm and hard. He’d come to expect Yuuri awake earlier, so attuned to the rise and sink of the sun, but this morning Yuuri slept on, his head pillowed against Viktor’s shoulder, his fingers still curled inside of Viktor’s robes in that subtly and unconsciously possessive way that was so delightful. Now he heard more than Yuuri’s heartbeat; even in his sleep he could still feel the gentle warmth of his love. A deep cough, not Yuuri’s, rather like an ahem, stopped Viktor’s smile before it could even form.
“Hello, Father.” So Yakov had come down, straight off the mountain.
“Vitya,” Yakov returned, sitting in a chair in the corner with an answering scowl that was more intimidating than anything Yuri had yet managed to craft. It was Viktor’s nickname, meant to be said in fondness, and yet only Yakov could make it sound like an insult: Idiot.
Most people knock, Viktor thought pointedly, trying his hardest not to wake Yuuri up.
“Most people aren’t the King of the Elves.” Evidently this wasn’t a consideration for Yakov.
Viktor pretended to consider that, though he refused to stir, too comfortable here in his own bed, too determined to try and let Yuuri rest. I’m not conceding the point, he replied, Mother’s right. You’re rather uncivilized sometimes. Yakov snorted, and the whole thing proved fruitless; Yuuri yawned there in his arms, which was adorable, and then his eyes widened as he processed Viktor’s flicker of fondness, as well as his consternation. “What’s going — oh —“
Yakov was sitting in a chair in Viktor’s room, looking at them both with an expression that was best described as permanently unimpressed.
“Oh, gods.”
“Quit panicking.” Viktor sighed irritably, and sat up on his elbows. “His face is always like that.”
“Show some respect.”
Viktor’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “You first,” he insisted, tilting his chin up in a way Yuuri was beginning to think of as genetic Northern stubbornness, and ancient pride. “You’ve always wanted to bring back the ancient days,” he added sharply. “Here you are, Yakov. In the presence of the phoenix.”