This is the cost of the Winter taking the throne, Harley knows.
His kingdom for his heart.
But this is the price he swore to, one hundred years ago.
A stranger in his bed, for the crown upon his bed.
So he stands under the branches of an iced willow, and he stares at the spot where his Eternity will stand.
He hopes, spirits, but he hopes that his Eternity is kind. That his Eternity will bring the softness of spring, the warmth of the summer, to his barren homeland.
He used to hope for more but patient, generous, that is all he needs now.
Beside, he gave his heart away long ago, back before he even knew what it meant to give it away.
They bring his Eternity out, draped in a soft red cloak, wearing sturdy blue boots.
For now, the ancient mist shrouds the face of the future that will forever be tangled with his own. It should be the most terrifying thing ever, but Harley inexplicably only feels a deep longing to tangle is fingers in the short brown curls.
His Eternity takes the spot next to Harley, gently bumps his shoulder with a familiarity Harley almost thinks improper.
And yet, it soothes something deep inside of him; lights up some dark and brittle corner of his soul, and curls there gently.
Harley does not speak the old language. It is part of why this union matters.
Harley is not the natural born heir.
Harley is…
Harley is Winter in the court of all seasons. Harley is the night, chewing the day. Harley is taking, stealing, reaping, the harvest of all the ancients.
It’s not his fault.
When the universe coughed up dust, there weren’t enough left and Harley? He survived.
He presents his hand, as does his Eternity. Ivy dipped in honey, deep gold thread, sage ropes, twisted and woven around their hands, their wrist, up their arms and around their elbows.
Summer.
Ancient Mist clouds them, blinds them. Cool mist, crisp, bathes them.
August.
Sprigs of thyme and sweet honeysuckle are woven through their curls, crowns adorned with small berries, nuts.
Spring.
Out of order, but the seasons are represented.
“What of Winter?” Harley wants to ask, but he bites his tongue. He is the foreigner, the usurper. He takes this throne, unites the lands.
He does not ask questions.
It’s a silent affair, if only because Harley doesn’t understand the melodies they chant. He likes them, because they’re soothing. The dulcet tones lull him into a sort of haze, the mist swirls about and Harley floats.
Until he crashes, warm blood swirling in his palm. “Ow,” he complains, ignoring the shushes.
Eternity snorts a soft laugh beside him, and it is beautiful. More beautiful than tinkling bells, or rain on the tin roof of his hut.
“I hope you laugh forever,” Harley blurts out.
He presses his bloody palm into his eternity, swearing a vow deeper, more lasting than the roots that hold the mountains down.
Mist begins to clear.
Eyes, sun soaked and wood deep, appear, framed by midnight lashes.
“I know you,” Harley gasps.
He doesn’t care about propriety or ritual. The Ancients turned the ash to dust, and left an orphan of low blood to rule it. He takes Peter’s face in his hand, and he’s smiling, Peter is smiling.
It’s a mess of a first kiss, grins splitting too hard for them to align properly.
Maybe it’s a sign, a clue, and foreboding omen, the truth of their imbalanced alliance. But the second kiss? Swaying to the songs of the past, the prayers of the future?
It is deep as the ocean, as eternal as the stars, as enduring as the lightning struck, ice hung willow they stand beneath.