a silver splendour, a flame

Nineteen days after Imbolc, 1018 II Age / 1 III Age

Yuuri came to his senses slowly, recognizing two creeping but opposing sensations: a heavy exhaustion throughout his limbs and the deep satisfaction of regaining awareness after a long, steady rest. He blinked slowly, eyelids heavy with sleep, and tried to sit up on his elbows, registering aches in muscles he hadn’t realized he had. He groaned lowly, and got his bearings: the bed was comfortable, and someone had changed his clothes; the sleeping robes he wore were soft, grey silk. The room he was in was big and round, with carved wooden eaves that reached overhead and met in the center of a domed ceiling, with figures asleep in eight beds arranged in a circle throughout, and recognizable tapestries on the walls, each of these reflecting Ast Petyriel’s moon pines in different seasons.

He scanned each of the beds in turn: Mari on his right, an empty bed past hers, and then beyond: Christophe, Rafael, Otabek, Yuri, and finally Viktor, each of them adorned the way he was, and still, it seemed, asleep. and beyond her, Christophe, then Rafael, then Otabek, then Yuri, and finally Viktor, each of them resting in the same attire, selected for patients of the halls of healing.

“… You’ve been out of it for a while,” murmured a nearby voice, and Yuuri had to turn his head further to see who it was who sat in the chair next to his bed. There was Seung-gil, who looked only marginally better than he did, with the hellhound familiar obediently resting at his feet, each of its three heads resting in the ban side’s lap.

“What — what happened?” Talking hurt. Yuuri hadn’t recalled taking much physical damage in the fight at the cauldron, but he supposed this was how it felt to be dangerously spent, to have so much magic drained from the very core of his person. He considered trying to summon little flickers of fire to the tips of his fingers and decided against it. If speaking was painful, spellcasting was going to be worse. He hoped his expression did the rest of the talking. How …?

Seung-gil hesitated before he answered; not for lack of certainty, but because he lacked the right language to describe the radiant wave their magics had woven together to create: the way it had shimmered over the cauldron like the light of a sunrise, spread over the angry void of the dragon, and onto the revenants, and then bled through them until they were clear, gone. “Something like a resurrection,” he said quietly. Christophe had imposed peace and acceptance; Viktor had given them a fighting chance, and then Yuuri had asked for even his own magic, for the death to end the cursed fates of these leftovers of war. The phoenix had given the final word: he did not think they were gone forever.

Nor did he think they would return as they were, broken, bent.

“The eagles came,” added the ban side, unsmiling, though he was at ease. He’d used far less magic than anyone else, and he’d come to sooner, with enough wits about him to direct the eagles North. Seung-gil did not relish the idea of returning to the royal courts of the aes sidhe, but he knew well enough the reputation of Lilia’s healers, of Ast Petyriel’s promise of rest.

“Did the cauldron —?”

“By all accounts, no.”

Yuuri exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, not without a wince, and took a moment to look around the room. His friends looked clean and cared for; of all of them, Viktor looked the palest, and he was attended by a mage at his bedside, who reached periodically for a cloth, soaked it in a bowl of water nearby, and then pat his forehead with it.

“I’m told the High Prince is dehydrated,” Seung-gil noted, “but nonetheless expected to recover, along with all of the others.”

“… Seung-gil,” Yuuri asked quietly, already begging for a favor. “… can you help me get to him?”

“You can’t possibly be considering healing him in your —“

“No.” Yuuri was sure he didn’t have the magic for it. Already he felt like he might fall asleep again. “I just want to be close to him.”

Seung-gil fixed him with a dark, expressionless stare, but he obliged, and the few steps it took to get to Viktor’s bed were painful ones but they were worth it. “There’s barely even room,” the ban side murmured, pragmatic as ever, but he didn’t know them, didn’t understand the way Yuuri fit so neatly when he was curled into Viktor’s side, when he carefully tangled their legs together. He took the wet washcloth gingerly from the nearby mage and then wrung it out, dribbling a few drops of water over Viktor’s chapped lips.

His brave, perfect prince.

“I suppose if I told you to move,” murmured an arch voice from the doorway, unimpressed, “you would be as stubborn as my son and decline?”

“Your majesty.” Lilia moved to check on Yuri first, sweeping the back of her palm over her son’s forehead, and with it a wave of emerald green magic. After a moment, she leaned over, pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“You didn’t answer me,” she noted.

Yuuri was too tired to even offer a wry smile. He decided to forego words. You’re not wrong.

My stubborn sons, she thought back, moving to Viktor’s bedside next, and leaning over them both to press a kiss to her elder son’s forehead. Nonetheless. The world is different today because of the courage of stubborn men. “Rest,” she said, and leaned over Yuuri, and to his great surprise, he, too, became the recipient of one of these swift, cool kisses. “It is safe now.”

- - -

Twenty-one days after Imbolc, 1018 II Age / 1 III Age

“Vitya, I think you’ve had more than enough beauty sleep.”

There were better ways to be woken up than the rumble of Yakov’s voice bouncing around his skull, and Viktor nearly said so, except his whole body felt heavy and unwieldy and thinking was — well, it wasn’t easy, but it was easier. He cracked one eye part of the way open, rewarded with a tousle of dark curls resting against his chest, Yuuri, that meant Yuuri was okay, and Yakov’s voice meant they were home or somewhere close to home. It should not have been possible to fit so much fondness and relief into one body simultaneously but somehow Viktor managed it; gave a steady exhale and let his eyes slide sidelong to the King.

Yakov said nothing, though one corner of his mouth quirked somewhat, and he stood up. Sit up, he commanded without real demand — in fact, he helped Viktor do so, propping him against the headboard with a care that it was sometimes hard to remember Yakov possessed. Wordlessly he poured a glass of water and handed it over.

Viktor didn’t realize how terribly thirsty he’d been until the first taste, and he knew he was home now; this was crisp and clear and reminded him of mountain runoff in the springtime. More alert now, he could recognize the hall of healing, the scattered cluster of beds, nearly all of them emptied and made now except for his own. Carefully, he swept his fingers through Yuuri’s hair. Yuuri’s breath came deep and even, and in his sleep he stirred a little, curled his fingers a little more possessively into the grey silk one of the healers must have outfitted them in upon their arrival.

How did we …?

The reaper was able to guide the eagles to carry you back here, Yakov returned dryly. Fortunately at least one of you remembered it also matters to be useful at the end of a fight.

Had it been a fight at the end, though? Viktor wasn’t sure. The radiance of that magic felt like it still haunted his dreams. He’d always been taught that to do battle was usually the result of ill-will, and yet this had felt different, like a strange, new release; a letting go; forgiveness.

A benediction. A blessing.

Yakov chuckled beside him. It’s very old magic, the King thought. What happened there, Vitya … you did well.

That was all Yuuri.

Would Yuuri have been able to do what he did without any of you?

A typical Yakov question, asked in a not-so-typical Yakov tone. It forced Viktor to examine his answer carefully. … No, he conceded, but without his influence …

You would not have gone.

It wasn’t worth answering, but it was true: in distant lands far from Ast Petyriel or Mosciren, the cauldron might’ve erupted, and Viktor would have sat high and alone in the Northern courts, protected and isolated from the suffering of strangers.

Shameful. That’s what it was.

Nonetheless, you went. Yakov pointed out, steady, unperturbed. Lilia informs me it’s the dawning of a new age, this.

Is it? If anyone would know, it was Lilia, the last great loremaster, who still sometimes understood the messages sent by the distant stars. Viktor felt no different than he’d felt before, unchanged by this fact, and yet they’d just been talking about the ways in which everything that mattered was different.

Apparently, Yakov replied, and Viktor did not need to hear ‘that woman is all trouble, Vitya,’ to imagine it. He glanced at his father once more, wondering what else hung behind the single word, what it was that he’d missed, and on studying the ancient King’s face the truth slowly set in.

…. You’re leaving, Viktor realized suddenly. You’re going to the havens.

Not immediately, my boy, words Yakov hadn’t used for him in years, … but soon enough, I think.

It was curious, the effect hearing the confirmation had on him. Viktor had known for years that this moment was someday going to come, had prepared for it in every possible way. Long years before, in a life that felt like it belonged to someone else, Christophe’s parents had left for the havens, and the world had continued to spin in their absence, though with a glaring vacancy that he’d taken far too long to address.

Lilia had taught him everything there was to know about magic and Yakov had taught him everything there was to know about power and now all Viktor could think about was how terrible of a King he was going to be someday soon, someday imminent.

Yakov reached over and snapped in front of his face, cutting those thoughts short. “Don’t be ridiculous,” murmured the mountain King, “the two of you will be the stuff of legends.”

The two of us? Viktor’s thoughts drifted to his brother, and the answering snort and pointed stare from his father reminded him of the gentle heat of Yuuri, asleep in his arms.

Minako tells me you made quite a scene at Imbolc, Yakov added, bemused. You’re the one who wanted to be married so badly, Vitya. Now you get to tell the rest of the waiting world about your consort…

You weren’t so impressed at the beginning, I seem to recall.

“I’ve seen what lengths you can go to now,” The King responded dryly. “It assuages certain concerns.” Then he smirked, if any expression on Yakov’s face could ever be called a smirk. Your mother is telling Yura, he thought. Your brother will also, I think, keep you from too much stupidity. “… Better rest now, Viktor,” he said, and Viktor could almost hear some of his own cheek in his father’s voice. “Coronation to plan and all.”

Viktor groaned, which was enough to make Yuuri stir in his arms, and blink owlishly up at him.

“Vitya?”

In the span of miliseconds, Viktor forgot the conversation he’d been having entirely, though it would come back to him soon and often: there was no greater pleasure on earth than to have Yuuri in the circle of his arms, shaking off sleep, saying his name.

- - -

Twenty-four days after Imbolc, 1018 II Age / 1 III Age

Perhaps of all of the buzz surrounding Ast Petyriel in the days after the Cauldron Event, nothing was quite so loud as a Southron mage storming into high street and then into Lilia’s council hall with very little regard for the general lethargy of those ensconced there, steadily recovering from the journey.

Phichit was a sight to see when he pointed firmly in Yuuri’s direction, scowling.

“You. Explain yourself. This very instant.”

Viktor blinked once, then twice, and then, watching the rapid spread of Yuuri’s blush over the bridge of his nose and then his cheekbones, buried his laughter in an ill-disguised cough.

“You’re lucky you’re going to be the King someday,” Phichit grumbled, as his black eyes slid in Viktor’s direction, “otherwise I’d give you an earful about how you didn’t marry my friend properly.”

“Oh, please do,” Yuri encouraged, flashing a half-cocked, malicious grin, which Viktor promptly repaid in full:

“Your concerns are ill-informed,” he stated, managing to keep his tone perfectly serious, though his blue eyes danced with a renewed mischief that wasn’t to be trusted. Yuri seemed to recognize his mistake much too late, and even Yuuri’s squeak of protest couldn’t stop what came next. “I assure you, we were very thorough.”

“Vitya!”

Later, Viktor gave them both a very wide berth, leaving Yuuri in the care of the friend he’d once traveled the wheel with as they exchanged stories: Phichit, who gave an embellished, sweeping account of the revenants the Southrons and Westerners had encountered in the desert; Yuuri, who finally went back to the very beginning, who confessed why he’d missed the last season of their pilgrimage together and then slowly filled in the pieces of the past year Phichit hadn’t been present to see. Phichit folded his legs up to his chest, rested his chin atop his knees, and studied Yuuri with a soft smile.

“You could have told me,” he insisted quietly, reaching for one of Yuuri’s hands. “I would have kept your secret.”

“I know.” And Yuuri did know. For all Phichit’s blind enthusiasm and spontaneity, he was tremendously loyal. “I just … I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You could never be a burden, Yuuri.”

Except that was precisely what Yuuri had long assumed his magic, and by extension, himself would be. Then Viktor had blown into his life with hurricane force, the most beautiful blue eyes on earth, and a mouth that was made for kissing. “I know that now.”

“Still,” Phichit whistled, after a moment of companionable silence, “not a bad catch, as far as husbands go, Mr. Future King-Consort …”

“Don’t remind me,” Yuuri mumbled, feeling his face heat up anew. The idea of a formal introduction to the entire waiting world as Viktor’s spouse was terribly intimidating. How he’d managed to dance his way through Imbolc with lovebites all over Viktor’s throat without combusting was now something of a mystery.

Or maybe that had been the point of it: maybe he’d been combusting all along.

“Do you want anyone else to be Viktor’s husband?” Phichit asked archly, with mischief in his smile.

“No.” Yuuri’s vehemence no longer surprised him. Viktor was his, the same way the sun rose in the east and set in the west. It was strange that it should be just so, perhaps; odd, curious. Nonetheless he was adamant about it. This was the way of things. They belonged and he forgot the rest.

“Guess you’re stuck with him then,” hummed Phichit, utterly unsympathetic to his plight. “King of the world and two castles. Must be terrible for you.”

Yuuri hit him with a pillow.

- - -

Thirty two days after Imbolc, 1018 II Age / 1 III Age

Ultimately it was Lilia who settled both the matter of the coronation and the departure to the havens, by way of reminding Viktor that he hadn’t managed a proper courtship at all, and owed it to the courts of Shen-Osheth and Vaux Romandith to make introductions at least. After that she and Yakov would remain through Samhain, and wait with him for Yuuri’s return.

Besides, she’d reminded him archly, without a smile, though he could almost sense the shadow of one, that way you can have the ceremony on Imbolc.

Imbolc.

If going through the motions of formal court traditions at Shen-Osheth at Beltane and Vaux Romandith for Lughnasadh meant that Viktor got to turn to Yuuri at Imbolc and put a crown on his consort’s head, he was already on board; might’ve been guilty of letting his mind wander back to that blaze of beauty, now reimagined with extra significance.

Soon they’d be going separate ways: Christophe and Rafael back to A’ve Palmera, where Christophe would stay for a short while before returning to Jean-Jacques at Vaux Romandith. Otabek intended to go back to the ranges for a time, and Seung-gil with him to visit his own family, though he’d promised to return by autumn. Yuri was not going with him, which both surprised and did not surprise Viktor. Whatever else he might’ve pretended, his younger brother was Lilia’s boy, and he was a little bit proud of the fact that he’d prioritized staying with his family over a courtship that now had more time than ever to bloom.

It was Yuri who shook Viktor out of his thoughts. Tonight they were settled around outside, having ridden out to the perfect white circle of Ast Petyriel’s moon pines, spread out on their backs while stargazing. For the first time, Viktor heard of the ban side names for the constellations he knew, and a few that he didn’t, listening to Christophe, Rafael, Otabek, and Yuri discuss them. Eventually, though, the heart woods fell into companionable silence.

Yuri was the one to shatter it with words, though not unpleasantly. “… It’s still a little hard to believe they’re going,” he murmured quietly, as though it was nearly only meant for Viktor.

“Yakov only wanted everyone to believe he’d be around forever,” quipped Christophe blithely, ignoring the dirty look the blond shot him. “Didn’t mean it was possible.”

“Maybe you can go with them,” Yuri threatened, though without menace. “Good riddance. Make Rafael the first ban side to see the havens.”

“No.” For a moment the one word hung above them, and it seemed Otabek had nothing further to add. He rolled onto his side, studying the blonde prince. “You’ll stay here, Christophe?” He asked, and let the aes sidhe’s grunt of assent speak for itself. “Like one of us.”

Yuri stared at the ranger for a long, long time. “… Would you come?”

“Do you think me worthy?”

You’ve always been worthy. Yuri couldn’t say it, not yet, but he looked at Otabek for a long moment until the ban side offered a slight smile and a dip of his head that was more of a yes than it was a no. In the background, Rafael’s snort of amusement injected some levity into the moment, and Otabek promptly pegged him with a pinecone for it.

“What about you two lovebirds,” Christophe asked, ignoring the fact that these were choice words from a man whose head was presently pillowed onto his lover’s stomach. He glanced briefly at Viktor and Yuuri. “How’s it work, when you get to choose?”

“The havens are to the west,” Viktor murmured thoughtfully, looking up from where his chin had previously rest in the crown of Yuuri’s hair. The Halfling was pretending to sleep, though a subtle curve on his lips was too tell-tale; that and Viktor understood his thoughts, the drowsy way in which Yuuri was humming along to the conversation. “I think we’d get in a ship,” he said, “just before dawn.”

“… and sail east,” Yuuri finished, which made Yuri groan, because if they were already finishing each other’s sentences, another thousand years of it was far, far too many. “Into the sunrise.”

- - -

Beltane, 1018 II Age / 1 III Age

Viktor’s impatience after a full day of ritual and ceremony was wearing thin, and Yuuri was completely unsurprised when Viktor dragged him away from the overlook, the bonfires, down the hill to a familiar field, the place they’d first danced.

It had only been a year ago, the first missteps in knitting together their bond. Viktor hooked an arm around his waist and dragged Yuuri close this time, with a look that was all perfect intent: this time they’d finish it. This time there’d be no waking up alone.

- - -

Nineteen days after Lughnasadh, 1018 II Age / 1 III Age

“What are you writing?”

“I think you know, Vitya.”

“… You don’t have to do that.”

“Maybe not,” hummed Yuuri, who signed the bottom of this day’s letter, and folded it carefully. “But I want to.”

- - -

Samhain, 1018 II Age / 1 III Age

It was not any easier the second time around: just a familiar landscape to be shattered in, a place Viktor already knew.