Work Text:
The battle is over. The fortress is safe.
Hongjoong sits heavily on the ground, his musket slipping from his hands. He massages his fingers, trying to uncurl them in the frigid air. "We won," he says to no one, and no one answers.
His fingers are red. The color of frostbite, the color of scrapes and cuts long gone numb. The color of frantically feeling for pulses in vain. The color of his coat, scattered across the battleground.
A whisper of a sound makes him lift his head; white flakes are drifting down from the sky, landing gently on the field with featherlight grace. As he watches, the snow slowly forms a blanket of white, enveloping the world in a quiet, colorless embrace.
He lets it fall on him, too, catching on his eyelashes and slipping down his collar. It settles over him, comfortingly clean and cold, and seeps into him to still the trembling inside. The battle is over. The fortress is safe.
The rear guard find him half-buried in snow, his face turned to the sky. He smiles at them and says, "We won."
They put him on guard patrol, out in the forest. His hands still sting under their bandages, but in the warmth and noise of the fortress he had found himself strung tight as a bow. Here, he finds pleasant distraction in the trails of the midwinter forest, snow sliding from branches and crunching underfoot. He is out here to watch for enemy movements, ostensibly; in truth his patrol takes him through the wilds behind the fortress, stretching far opposite the border the enemy presses from. He is not the only one aware of his need for solitude.
"You need not serve at all," the captain had told him, hastily promoted from the rear guard. "None would fault you to rest, or take up other task if you cannot be idle."
"Yes, sir," Hongjoong had simply replied with a salute, his thoughts already in the drifting snow.
A gentle flurry is coming down, large flakes that catch on his hair, when he spots the figure in the distance. He squints through the veil of white, at first sure he is seeing an illusion-- but even as he watches, it draws closer, moving gracefully through the fallen snow with slow, elegant steps. A tall man of unearthly beauty is walking through the forest, dressed in a long white robe that trails upon the snow behind him.
Hongjoong stares, transfixed; the man seems to shimmer with a cold iridescence, his robe glittering like moonlight on frost. Even the tips of his dark hair curve around his face as sharp as icicles, framing regal, dignified features and a delicate, pointed chin. Only the color of his lips betrays that the man walks among the living-- a deep crimson red, as brilliant as Hongjoong's coat.
The man seems as though he might pass without noticing Hongjoong, his gaze upon the snow-laden trees; then, his eyes fall to meet his, dark and piercing like a cloudless winter night. He seems neither alarmed nor curious, merely recognizing Hongjoong's existence in a single lingering glance.
And then he is past, disappearing into the forest once more. Hongjoong lifts his hands to his face-- his cheeks are ice cold in the wake of the man's passage.
He does not mention the man in his report. A soldier who sees mirages in the snow is not fit for any duty, let alone a pointless patrol. The captain's kindness is enough; he does not need his concern, too.
It is some days later when Hongjoong spies the figure again. He has ventured deeper into the forest, wandering between birches with the thought of seeking the river that lies to the north-- and there, framed between two trees, is the unearthly man again. Hongjoong draws a breath, his thoughts for a moment frozen in the chill air; rays of sunlight filter down through the trees, and where they touch the man they scatter glints of prismatic light.
His feet move before his mind, taking him forward with slow, curious steps. The snow seems to crunch loudly beneath his boots, but the man does not look up until Hongjoong nearly stands before him. It is unclear if he recognizes him, but he lifts a hand, palm facing him; Hongjoong wonders for a second if it is a greeting before something glittering catches his eye between them.
It is a spiderweb, stretched between the trees, long abandoned by its occupant; instead, its delicate strands are feathered with frost, perfectly preserved in icy filigree. Hongjoong steps forward, examining it in fascination; up close, he can see the fine structure of the frozen crystals, catching the sunlight with a twinkling shimmer. On the other side, the man leans in to admire the web as well, and Hongjoong finds himself gazing through it at his ethereal beauty. Tiny snowflakes adorn his eyelashes, a silver dusting of frost on his cheeks; his eyes, at this distance, shine with a crystalline glint that lights up at the right angle of sun.
In effort to keep himself from looking at the man's lips, Hongjoong drops his gaze under his slender chin; the shimmering robe falls wide upon his shoulders, trimmed with downy white fur and draping in a hood down his back. Beneath the robe, he seemed dressed entirely in silken white, an elaborate corset of diamond-jeweled chains fitting his long tunic tight to his waist before trailing down over his hips.
The man straightens, as if aware of his scrutiny; Hongjoong drags his eyes back up to meet that piercing gaze through the spiderweb. "It's magnificent," he blurts out, perhaps meaning the web, perhaps not. The frozen threads flutter in the burst of warm breath, frost melting into morning dew; Hongjoong claps his hand over his mouth, horrified at his inadvertent destruction.
The man looks almost faintly amused, the glint of his eyes catching the light; he leans in again, pursing his lips, and blows gently on the strands. Before Hongjoong's eyes, they crystallize into frost once more, as perfect as if no breath had ever disturbed them.
Hongjoong stares at the man through the glittering web, the chill from his breath sharp on his skin. He did not think he had met an ordinary being, but neither had he expected a magical one.
"Are you... a fae?" he asks, from behind his hand. The man-- no, being-- tilts his head at him.
"Yes," he replies after a moment's consideration. "That is the closest thing you would call me in your tongue." He pauses for another moment, then turns as though to walk away.
Hongjoong quickly rounds the spiderweb, falling into step next to him. "I thought you a dream, when I first saw you."
The fae tilts his head again, this time in haughty offense. "I, a figment of a mortal's mind? Nonsense-- I am as real as the snow upon which you tread."
"No, I meant--" Hongjoong fumbles for words, looking up at the fae's icy profile. "I had not known anything so beautiful could exist in this world."
The fae seems mollified by this, lifting his chin as if faintly pleased. He strolls forward, his robe trailing through the snow-- Hongjoong realizes with a start that the fae wears nothing upon his feet, silken trousers narrowing to leg wrappings that end at his ankles. "Aren't you cold?" he asks, before he thinks the better of the question.
The fae follows his gaze. "Cold?" He blinks slowly, amused once more; then, he lifts one elegant hand from his robe, fingers feathered in silver frost, and blows across his palm. Hongjoong squints his eyes shut as a gust of fine powder snow fills the air. "I am the cold, mortal one."
When he opens his eyes, the fae has disappeared. Only the powder remains, shimmering in the sunlight through the pale birch trees.
Hongjoong does not catch a glimpse of the fae for a few days, to the point where he worries he is being avoided; he spends long hours patrolling the forest, carrying a pack of supplies so as to wander further afar. He finds the river on the fourth day, smooth but deceptively deep, and decides to eat his meal on the shore; snow has begun falling again, the heavy flakes slowly drifting downriver.
He is just kneeling with flint to light a small fire when a movement makes him look up; at the edge of the forest stands the fae, his sleeves fluttering in the breeze.
Hongjoong nearly drops the flint, half-rising as if he has been caught in some guilty act. "I-- I did not realize you were there." He glances down at the kindling; he is not sure how kindly a being of wintry cold will take to a fire. "May I light this? Or have I trespassed somehow?"
"Do as you like," the fae replies, stepping onto the shore. "I do not own the forest." He crosses the sand, frost forming beneath his feet, and stops at the river's edge. The water swiftly turns to ice, spreading along the surface with a faint crackling noise until the current below grows too strong.
Hongjoong stares in fascination, flint half-forgotten in his hand; somehow not a trace of dirt clings to his robe, though it drags on the sandy shore. The fae turns, seemingly aware of his gaze; Hongjoong quickly distracts himself with the kindling, striking the flint until it sparks a flame. He cradles it gently, coaxing it to catch the wood; soon, the campfire is burning steadily, its warmth warding off the chill breeze.
He unwraps a tiny pot of stew and sets it near the fire to warm, digging another wrapped bundle of bread and dried fruit from his pack. It is a meager meal, compared to returning to the fortress, but he prefers it to the noise and crowd of the dining hall-- even if both are somewhat subdued now.
The fae is still watching his actions curiously when he looks up. Hongjoong flounders under his gaze, casting about for some topic that might interest an otherworldly magical being, or at least not inadvertently insult him. "Er-- would you like to try some?"
With a blink that seems almost startled, the fae shifts his eyes to the lightly bubbling stew. "I cannot."
Hongjoong curses inwardly-- of course a being of icy cold would be averse to hot food. "Right, um--" He hastily unwraps the other bundle, looking for something fit to offer; dry bread and leathery fruit hardly seem likely to impress with their flavor.
"I have no need," the fae says quickly. He crosses the shore again, and perches on a fallen log with more elegance than should be possible. Hongjoong notes that he keeps some distance from the fire, though he does not seem particularly perturbed by it. "Do you dwell here?"
Hongjoong burns his fingertips on the stew pot, startled by the abrupt question. "I-- I suppose? I'm a soldier. Or I was, at least." He glances at his musket, lying next to his pack. "I patrol the forest, though my home is in the fortress." How odd, that he refers to it as home so easily, when he has been here less than a year, when all those he knew-- "What of you? Do you dwell here, too?"
"I dwell where there is winter," the fae replies, folding his hands in his lap. "I am the cold, the frost, and snow."
"You make it snow?" Hongjoong looks up at the sky, holding a palm out; a large flake lands on it, melting at his touch. The fae smiles in faint amusement, lifting his silvery fingers where they lay, and in reply the snow swirls above Hongjoong's hand. It collects upon itself, solidifying before his eyes into fine, petal-like curls, until a flower of frost rests on his palm.
Hongjoong holds his breath, enchanted-- though perhaps the smile still lingering on the fae's lips is even more entrancing. He tilts the flower from side to side, the paper-thin layers glittering in the firelight. "I never imagined snow could be so lovely-- ah!" He watches helplessly as the lowest layers crumble in the heat of his hand.
The fae waves his fingers again, and the flower whirls away into silver particles once more. He rises, turning toward the forest.
"Wait!" Hongjoong stands hastily, his breath a pale white in the air. "My name is Hongjoong. May I know yours-- if you have one?"
The fae raises one elegantly curved eyebrow. "You wish for me to take you away?" He smirks at Hongjoong's alarmed reaction, folding his arms in front of him. "That is how your stories go, is it not?"
"I--" Hongjoong indeed recalls many a tale of the unwitting spirited away by the fae. Has he just given himself to this ethereal being? Though, it does not feel like so terrible a fate--
"Worry not," the fae continues. "I have no wish to do so." He tilts his head in seeming consideration before granting Hongjoong another mesmerizing smile. "I have many names in many tongues, but in yours, you may call me Seonghwa."
Seonghwa. The name lingers on Hongjoong's lips, though he has not spoken it aloud; he eats his meals, delivers his report, goes to sleep with it at the tip of his tongue. He wonders if he is under some fae enchantment after all, his thoughts curving toward that figure in white. If so, he does not mind; his heart feels lighter than it has in some time.
Seonghwa, he thinks, stopping at the kitchen to pick up supplies. "Er-- may I make a request?"
He hurries out into the wintry forest, boots crunching on new-fallen snow. The river is a half-day's walk through pine thickets and stream-carved ravines, but it is worth it if there is the slightest hope of meeting the fae again. So much so he reaches the river early, the sun still climbing overheard when he spots the clearing on the shore. And there, sitting on a half-submerged log, is a figure in shimmering white.
"Seonghwa!" Hongjoong all but runs to the shore, pausing breathlessly at the forest's edge. The name feels satisfying, almost sublime to finally speak.
Seonghwa turns, startled, and blinks at him in bewilderment. "You came seeking me? I have not compelled you."
"Perhaps you have all the same," Hongjoong says, setting his pack on the sand. "I brought something you might be able to try, this time." He pulls out a blanket and spreads it on the shore, followed by a few carefully wrapped bundles. The last of these is a small round flask with a tin cup over the cork. "Can you drink?"
Seonghwa rises, staring at Hongjoong more bewildered than before. "I told you, I have no need."
Hongjoong sits on the blanket, leaving one side open. "I wish to share-- if you do not mind, that is." He looks up at the fae, hoping he has not inadvertently offended once more. Perhaps it is ridiculous to think a being of such beauty and elegance would deign to break bread with a humble mortal.
Seonghwa shifts one foot to the other, eyes falling to the blanket, and steps hesitantly forward. His feet leave marks of frost on the fabric, until he stands gazing down at Hongjoong. "What a curious mortal you are." He sits with inexplicable grace, glittering chains and shimmering robe pooling around him as he folds his legs to one side.
Hongjoong cannot help staring in awe, his mouth falling open. Now he truly feels as though he is committing some guilty act.
"Well?" Seonghwa gazes back at him, eyes glinting with amusement. Whatever his opinion of sitting with a mortal, he seems pleased by his effect on Hongjoong. "What is it you wish to share with me so?"
Hongjoong swallows nervously, turning his attention to the bundles. "Soft cheese and figs, and mulled wine-- not strong, but it will not freeze in the snow." What the cook must think of him, trekking into winter wilderness to dine on wine and cheese-- but in truth, he had mostly seemed relieved Hongjoong was speaking again. Another thought strikes him, and he glances up. "Are you able to eat?"
"After a fashion," Seonghwa assures him. "But I will partake little. I do not need it to survive as you do."
Hongjoong pours wine into the little tin cup, feeling as though he ought to be serving it in a silver goblet. He offers it, relieved that his fingers do not tremble, and waits with baited breath as Seonghwa delicately takes it from his hand. Frost feathers on the cup as the fae lifts it to his lips and takes a curious sip; he blinks with an almost confused expression, eyebrows pinching, and then raises the cup again.
"Do you... like it?" Hongjoong watches anxiously, studying the fine details of his face. His lips are very nearly the same color as the wine.
Seonghwa lowers the cup thoughtfully. "...Yes," he finally pronounces. He holds the cup out; it is frosted over entirely in a thin layer of white.
Hongjoong reaches for it before he thinks the better, and feels the color rise on his cheeks. "I-- er-- are you sure you wish to share?" He mentally shakes his head; of course the fae does not know its meaning as a courting ritual.
Seonghwa creases his eyes in amusement, and Hongjoong wonders if perhaps he does. "You said you wished to, did you not?"
Hongjoong lifts the cup before the flush can spread to his ears. The metal is icy cold on his lips, the wine a sweet chill on his tongue; he wonders, for a fleeting instant, if Seonghwa's mouth feels the same-- he coughs as the alcohol hits his throat, and quickly turns to the rest of the provisions.
Seonghwa demands to try everything, even the dry bread and salted herring Hongjoong has brought for himself; he likes the cheese and figs, and even declares a taste for the herring, though his opinion of the bread seems unsurprisingly equal to Hongjoong's. They continue to pass the wine back and forth, until the flask is empty and a faint but pleasant warmth has settled in Hongjoong's stomach. He cannot tell if the wine has any effect on Seonghwa, but the fae seems to grow more openly curious, the quirk of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
He rinses the cup in the river, gazing out in dazed distraction and wondering again what guilty dream he has wandered into, dining and drinking-- from the same cup, no less-- with a fae on a sandy river shore. Perhaps he dreams while waking, in some working of his tired mind; yet he does not think his imagination could invent such beauty in such breathtakingly vivid detail.
He startles as the water suddenly freezes over, and glances up to see Seonghwa has joined him at the river. "Do you wish to cross?" the fae asks, looking to the far shore.
Hongjoong rises, blinking in confusion, and realizes he has been staring unseeing across the way. The land that lies beyond is unclaimed territory, a dense wilderness of forest sprawling far to the north. "Ah-- no, I was merely distracted." He clutches the cup between his hands, gazing up at Seonghwa. "I... I hope I did not offend you, today."
"Quite the opposite," Seonghwa replies, a faint smile playing on his lips again. "I would not mind sharing company with you again, though you need not ply me with fine fare next time."
Hongjoong stands stunned for a moment, as though he has swallowed another sip of the coldest, sweetest wine, heady with spices and alcohol. "You-- would? With me?"
"I assume you have other reasons to wander the winter forest so frequently," Seonghwa says, inclining his head as if gently chiding him. "But yes. Should our paths cross, you may walk with me." A smile graces his lips once more. "...Hongjoong."
Hongjoong is certain he must be enchanted now; he finishes his patrol and delivers his report with the sound of his name echoing in his ears, spoken softly from wine-red lips that favor him ineffably-- inexplicably-- with their regard. He barely hears the captain's response to his report until the man looks up in faint concern.
"Sir?" Hongjoong endeavors to focus his preoccupied thoughts.
The captain-- Jongho, he vaguely recalls-- sighs and sits back in his chair. "I said, there is word reinforcements will arrive soon. If you wish to leave, I may be able to arrange a transfer to the capital."
"Leave?" The word sits heavy and alien in his mind.
"I cannot send you away easily-- you are a hero among the men here." Jongho pauses, meeting his gaze. "Though perhaps you do not see it that way. All the same, I would not keep you here against your will either."
A hero. He had shot the last enemy, and in the ringing silence discovered that none other still stood. The outcome would have been the same had he died.
Jongho seems to take his silence for indecision. "You need not answer now. But I will ask again, when the men arrive."
Hongjoong pushes his thoughts back under the ice. "Yes, sir. Am I dismissed?"
Jongho looks as though there is more he wishes to say-- but he simply sighs, and nods.
Reinforcements. The fortress will grow loud again, the corridors crowded and lively. Right. The battle is won, but the war wages on.
Hongjoong dreams of falling snow, and heads out half-asleep on his patrol. His feet take him to the birch forest, though the sunlight is muted to a dull grey-- and there, where the pale trunks mingle with dark green brush, he spots the white-robed fae.
Air fills his lungs as if he has just awoken, and he jogs forward through the trees. "Seonghwa!"
Seonghwa turns, a smile rising to his lips. "Hongjoong." He gazes at Hongjoong as he approaches, radiant even in the cloudy weather, his voice like the taste of wine still on the tip of Hongjoong's tongue. Then, the fae tilts his head with a furrow of his brow. "...You are upset."
Hongjoong stumbles to a halt in front of him. "I-- what?" He looks up at the fae, confused, and then discovers that, yes, he is.
More men-- more battles-- more faces and names he cannot afford to remember-- he cannot bear seeing the fortress through another fight-- yet the last thing he wants now is to leave--
"Er-- nothing to be concerned about," he says, and relates the captain's ultimatum.
Seonghwa blinks uncomprehendingly. "Why does he believe you wish to leave?"
Hongjoong swallows, hesitating. "There was-- a battle." His throat closes. He cannot say more lest he lose the words to speak again.
The fae studies him a moment longer, his dark eyes piercingly sharp; then, he turns to a small tree he had been examining, dark oval leaves laden heavily with snow. "I have a gift for you," he says, and reaches between the leaves to pluck a small golden fruit the size of an olive. He presses it between Hongjoong's lips, the brush of his fingertips like snowflakes on skin. "In return for your kindness yesterday."
Hongjoong bites down on the fruit automatically, the half-frozen flesh quickly thawing on his tongue; tangy sweet citrus floods his mouth like a burst of sunlight. Like the sun, too, it softens something in his spine, his breath drawing easily once more. "A gift?"
Seonghwa lifts his chin, his faint smile returning. "Perhaps only the discovery is mine to give." He plucks another fruit, its bright color peeking out between the dark leaves. "But was the wine and cheese you offered me that of your own hand?"
"You need not give me anything at all," Hongjoong protests, his cheeks warm in the icy air. Has he invoked some arcane obligation in his enthusiasm? "I wished merely to share, and share your company."
"As do I," Seonghwa replies, and places another fruit upon his lips. "Share with me your company, Hongjoong."
The fae gathers several more fruits into a fold of his robe, leading Hongjoong on a leisurely walk through the trees. He asks of Hongjoong's patrols and the enemy that he watches for, pausing occasionally to feed him another fruit. He knows more of the land than Hongjoong expects, though the war is of little interest to him.
"I have little wish to attend to the squabbles of men," Seonghwa tells him, as they step into a clearing. "The forest was quiet a year ago, and it will be quiet once more."
"A year ago?" The war had not yet begun. Hongjoong had not yet left home, a simple huntsman in a simple village unaware of the tension brewing in the courts of diplomacy. In the span of that time, an eternity has passed. "Do you only come here in winter?"
Seonghwa leads him to the center of the clearing, where an old tree grows with thick, gnarled roots that call whispered superstitions to mind. "I am the winter," he says simply, perching on a root and placing his hand next to him. "Sit. Or have you had your fill?"
Hongjoong sits, and Seonghwa presses another frozen fruit to his lips. The fae seems pleased to feed his mortal companion, like a master showering treats upon a favored hound. Hongjoong cannot find a part of himself that minds.
He swallows the tart-sweet citrus, clearing his throat. "Then, you do not see other seasons at all?"
Seonghwa lifts the last of the fruits to his own mouth, taking a bite. "I cannot. But I do not take sorrow in this-- the winter is where I dwell, and it is ever a beautiful home." He gives Hongjoong an amused smile. "Would you not say?"
Hongjoong can hardly spare a glance for his surroundings, gazing back at Seonghwa's frost-silvered elegance. "I learn of its beauty more with each day," he replies, wholeheartedly.
Seonghwa laughs, eyes crinkling in genuine delight. "Then perhaps you will love the winter yet." He holds the remaining half of the fruit up to Hongjoong's mouth, like a reward for pleasing behavior. "Shall I show you its true majesty?" Hongjoong flushes to the tips of his ears, but lets the fae feed it to him nonetheless.
"Can you do nothing at all?"
Hongjoong looks up from his stew; the speaker is a soldier, a few seats away in the subdued dining hall. He does not recognize him. He does not recognize any of them; he cannot afford to.
"You don't train, you don't hunt, you wander the forest like a ghost-- what was the point of surviving?"
His words are correct. Hongjoong cannot understand why this makes the man angry.
"There a problem?"
A low voice interrupts from above; a tall, broad-shouldered soldier stands between them, carrying his meal in large, callused hands. Across the table, another man joins, equally muscular if somewhat shorter and slighter. "I'm sure it's nothing," the man says, with deceptive lightness, and sits down across from Hongjoong. "It's Hongjoong, right? Can we join you?"
The taller man sits as well, blocking the would-be offender from sight. "Don't act like you don't know his name. You've been wanting to talk to him all week."
"Mingi!" The shorter man looks indignant. "I wanted to be polite. I'm San, by the way-- uh, is it all right?"
Hongjoong nods wordlessly, returning to his stew. It is not the first time others have struck up conversation since the battle. But he finds it easier not to say anything at all.
"I would've spoken sooner, but you're a rare sight in the fortress of late." San digs into his own meal with apparent relish. "Are you going to join us when we start training?"
Hongjoong looks up, confused. Next to him, Mingi leans over his meal, one arm on the table. "We're getting ready for the front. Only so many men to go around."
The stew turns to ash in Hongjoong's mouth. The rear guard are trained in fortress defense, a standing crew that had not seen battle before the attack. Of course they might look to a survivor for guidance.
"You don't have to," San adds quickly, flashing a smile. "But we'd feel better with you there."
Mingi nods, biting into his bread. "Morale and all that, yeah."
Hongjoong sets his spoon down, swallowing the tasteless lump of food. Do they think he will bring them hope? "I'm not a hero."
San's smile deepens into dimples. "Of course you are. You won."
The field, shrouded in white-- "I survived."
Mingi glances over. "Isn't that how winning works?" Hongjoong cannot tell if the question is honest or rhetorical. He stands up. He does not want to talk about this.
"You're done? But you've still got--" Hongjoong pushes his unfinished dish across the table. He turns and walks away, the soldiers' names and faces slipping from his mind.
He watches the snow drift down from the sky. More men have arrived.
This cannot be, they say. Where is the captain?
He looks out at the battlefield, blanketed in soft, uniform white. It is the only answer he can give.
How can this be? They look at faces, feel for pulses his hands know are not there. Where are the medics?
At this he laughs, a hiccup he cannot swallow. The medics had fallen hours ago. Did they expect them to be spared?
He looks up again, further, until the ground rushes up to meet his back. The snow drifts down in a mesmerizing dance. Maybe if he lets it cover him, they will bury him, too.
He closes his eyes. Snowflakes kiss his eyelids, and bid him to rest.
Hongjoong spends even longer afield, trekking out at sunrise and very nearly returning after sunset. He would take his evening meal along as well, but Jongho insists he return by dark. "I would rather hear your report during waking hours," he tells Hongjoong; an ostensibly good reason, if not the real one.
His feet seem to take him wherever Seonghwa waits, or perhaps Seonghwa waits where his feet take him; the fae comes and goes at his own whim, now walking in stately silence alongside him, now striding through piled drifts to show him some wintry sight. Leaves frosted over in perfect filigree, every line traced in a fine lattice of white; layers of ice folded over like spun wool, crumbling to pieces at the slightest touch. Trees hung with hundreds of icicles, catching the sunlight in prismatic radiance; windblown clearings where the snow forms strange shapes, spiked sheaves and crooked castles built only on themselves. The fae finds rose hips and walnuts, tiny dark berries and leaves that smell of lemon; Hongjoong shares bites of cheese and bread, pottage savory and sweet, tea and coffee brewed over a fire and cooled in a snowdrift until palatable.
At times, Seonghwa is content to keep quiet company; at others, he peppers Hongjoong with questions on whatever strikes his fancy. Hongjoong struggles to answer to his own satisfaction, feeling the limits of his understanding, but the fae listens so attentively he suspects it is as much an excuse to hear him speak as to indulge his curiosity.
Days pass uncounted, perhaps weeks, perhaps more; he is only brought back to the reckoning of time when their walk is interrupted by the sound of gunshots, far in the distance.
Hongjoong freezes, trying to recall if he has loaded his musket, before he remembers where and when he is. It is simply the sound of target practice, of soldiers training for the front.
He cannot step forward.
Seonghwa looks back at him, pausing his stride. "What bothers you? This sound?" He examines Hongjoong's face, dark eyes narrowing. "Shall I stop it?"
The thought breaks Hongjoong's paralysis enough for him to shake his head. "Just soldiers training," he manages, summoning a weak smile. "I'll be fine."
Seonghwa's expression does not change. He lifts his hand, the tip of one cold finger tilting Hongjoong's chin up under his scrutiny. "You will not." He drops his hand, turning away. "Come. I will sing for you."
He leads Hongjoong to a small clearing, where he slips off his robe and spreads it on the snow. Hongjoong dazedly lets himself be guided, until his head rests upon soft velvet and fur, cool fingertips brushing his forehead; above him, Seonghwa begins to sing, and he is set adrift upon the mesmerizing melody.
There is nothing familiar about the tune, the words in no language he has ever heard spoken. Yet somehow, he knows it sings of sorrow and joy, of death and rebirth ever unceasing; somehow, he knows it is implaceably old, perhaps even outside the passage of time. It fills his ears until it is all he can hear, cold seeping up through his back; snowflakes gently dance down from above, as if winter embraces him with featherlight kisses.
What was the point of surviving?
He cannot train, he cannot hunt, he prefers the forest to the fortress, the company of fae over friends. He cannot stand before the men as a hero when his heart is buried in snow. It would be easier on all if he could simply vanish into the wood, into the winter, and never turn back.
--gazing up at the snow as it buries him, too--
He opens his eyes as the song draws to a close, unsure if it has been minutes or hours. Seonghwa leans over him, his expression soft, almost tenderly sweet. "I may have gotten carried away."
"Carried away?" Hongjoong pushes himself up, and draws an astonished breath; flowers of frozen white have blossomed on every surface, carpeting the ground, winding up the trees, clustering on the branches that arch over the clearing. The two of them now sit in a muffled garden of snow, the finest, softest petals surrounding them in exquisitely delicate beauty. "Seonghwa-- you made all this with your song?"
"I have no place fit to spirit you away. So I have created one for you instead." Seonghwa turns Hongjoong's chin with one silvered finger, his lips curved in fond amusement. "Yet you are still troubled. What plagues you so?"
"I-- It is not--" Hongjoong drops his gaze, words trapped under ice. "I will be fine."
Seonghwa sits back, eyes narrowing again. "Very well. If you cannot speak of it, then sing for me instead."
"Sing?!" Hongjoong stammers for an entirely different reason-- his voice is passing, but compared to a fae? "I-I am but a huntsman from a humble village. I hardly know anything so sublime."
"I would hear it all the same." Seonghwa lies on his side, propping his head elegantly on his hand. "Sing for me, Hongjoong."
Hongjoong licks his lips nervously, trying to recall lyrics under the scrutiny of the fae's crystalline gaze. A verse comes to him, and he lifts his voice to sing the first line, of a long walk on rough-cobbled roads-- and for a moment he falters. It is a song he learned on the journey north, the lament of a soldier leaving a lover for the front.
He gazes into Seonghwa's face, rapt curiosity and indulgent fondness wreathed in shimmering silver, and continues singing.
The lyrics tell of longing and loneliness, waxing poetic on every detail of the lover's sweet allure. What phrases Hongjoong forgets, he makes up offhand; the words come surprisingly easy, with the inspiration that lies before him. Seonghwa lets his eyes fall shut, his regal features relaxing into something akin to bliss, and Hongjoong cannot help but admire him all the more.
His breathtaking radiance and dignified grace, his ethereal beauty adorned in ice and feathered frost; the way his silken shirt falls open to one bare shoulder, the way the jeweled chains drape artfully over his thighs. The way he looks upon Hongjoong with his sharp eyes and softly-curving lips, favoring him with pleased amusement and unexpected, undeserved esteem. The way Hongjoong feels less a curiosity than a companion, cared for and protected with surprising-- dare it be said-- warmth.
It is little wonder, that even in this glittering garden of ice, he is enchanted entirely by the one before him. He sings of longing, and lifts a hand, tentative fingers reaching dreamlike towards one delicate cheek--
Cold circles his wrist, as bitter as frostbite; Seonghwa has caught it in his grasp, his eyes open once more. His grip is gentle, yet it burns as though Hongjoong has plunged his hand into the freezing river, cutting through flesh straight to the bone. His gaze seems to pierce even the ice in Hongjoong's chest.
Hongjoong draws in a sharp breath. "Forgive me-- I forget myself--"
"There is nothing to forgive." Seonghwa turns his head, brushing his lips to the palm of Hongjoong's hand, and then releases him. "You will come again tomorrow, yes?"
Hongjoong glances down at his hand, icy cold tingling in its center. "Yes, of course-- if you are sure you do not mind--" A dusting of snow dances over him, and he looks up; the fae has vanished from the clearing, leaving only the glittering garden behind.
The snow falls deeper, a new blanket to bury the old; Seonghwa leads him further into the forest, now ever at his side. He sings to Hongjoong even when the sound of shots does not echo through the sky, blossoms curling on tree trunks and trailing behind as they pass. Indeed, even when he is quiet, frost forms on every surface, feathering the tips of Hongjoong's hair with soft touches of white.
Each time they part, he takes Hongjoong's hand with gentle fingertips, and brushes his lips on the inside of his palm-- a new kiss to bury the old. Hongjoong folds his fingers over it, as if to keep it from melting away.
"Are you sure you have not enchanted me?" he asks once, half jokingly.
Seonghwa catches his chin with one icy fingertip, his smile amused, light glittering in his gaze. "Would you not seek me out regardless?"
He would. In Seonghwa's presence, he is at ease. The cold fills him with a quiet stillness, a peace he can find nowhere else. He dreams of resting in its embrace. "I would follow you wherever you might lead," he admits, though he keeps his voice light, his lips curved. "Even if you wished to spirit me away."
At this Seonghwa's eyes darken, perhaps protective, perhaps possessive-- and he releases Hongjoong's chin. "The place I return to is of the deepest cold, where I sleep until the seasons turn. No mortal could survive there, willing or otherwise."
"Would you take me there anyway?" Hongjoong asks-- smiling in jest, of course.
"Do not ask me such a thing." Seonghwa turns, resuming his stride. "Come, you said you remembered another song. Let me hear your voice this time."
"Battle has broken out to the south," Jongho says abruptly, as Hongjoong finishes a report. "The reinforcements have been sent there first." He looks up from a letter he is writing. "Have you come any closer to a decision?"
A decision. Right. "If I stay," Hongjoong starts, closing his hand over his palm. "What will be expected of me?"
"You will be asked to fight," Jongho replies, matter-of-fact. "Not by me. But I am a sergeant with no experience on the front, and my order will be secondary when the reinforcements arrive."
Hongjoong drops his eyes to the desk. It is the answer he has been dreading.
"If another battle is waged here, no captain can let you keep wandering the wood." Jongho folds his arms across his chest. "Indeed, I do not know if it is wise of me to do so now."
Hongjoong snaps his gaze back up. "What? I can't-- I need to--"
"Hongjoong." Jongho's tone makes him straighten involuntarily. "You stray further afield with each passing day. You shun comfort and comrades in favor of the cold and snow. I watch you leave each morning not knowing if that will be the day you do not come back--" His voice stops, as if it has hit an edge it cannot cross. The hairs stand up on Hongjoong's arms.
Jongho draws a breath and lets it out, and is the captain once more. "Too many men have been lost here already. I would not lose another to himself."
Hongjoong descends the stairs as if in a fog. Surely, it would be easier for all to simply walk away. To vanish into the falling snow, into the cold embrace of winter. It is where his heart lies, after all.
And yet the words still echo in his ears: come back, on the edge of a precipice.
He cannot afford to think about this. Jongho is the captain. Where is the captain?
"Hongjoong!"
At the bottom of the stairs are two soldiers, broad-shouldered, one tall, one slight. His mind unwillingly drags their names from memory: Mingi, and San.
"We were starting to worry." San's dimples flash like sunshine. "Glad you're still here."
Mingi rolls his shoulder, rubbing it with a wince. "Don't blame you not wanting to train. My shoulder's still sore from the recoil."
Hongjoong nods wordlessly, stopping on the stair. He truly cannot afford this.
"You heard about the battle, right?" San looks up at him, bright-eyed. "Think we'll stand a chance if it comes here?"
To an undermanned fortress with a completely untried crew? He gives them a look askance and continues down as if to pass.
Mingi blocks his path. "Hey. Don't act as if this doesn't involve you, too. Just because you can't fight doesn't mean you can just give up."
Hongjoong shakes his head-- what is he supposed to do? "If the battle comes here, the reinforcements are dead. What chance do you think you have then?"
Mingi bristles. "What, you think we're hopeless?" He steps closer, crossing his arms. "Maybe we wouldn't be if you actually helped."
Hongjoong gazes at Mingi's shoulder. It would be easier to walk away. It would easier not to say anything. But instead he says-- "I can't."
Mingi scowls down at him. "You can't help? You're the only one here who's been through a battle, and you can't even give us advice?"
"I can't." Hongjoong looks between the two men desperately, a tremble threatening to break loose in his chest. He could not even save a single life. "Did you not see the battlefield-- did you not see the bodies--" Do they think he can tell them how not to die?
"We saw them," San answers quietly. "We buried them. It was only because you survived that we did not despair."
Mingi looks down, silent. San reaches for Hongjoong's shoulder, his fingers clasping tight. "You gave us hope, Hongjoong. Please don't give up on us now." He smiles, gently, warmly, a glimpse of sun. "That's all we need our hero to do."
Hongjoong walks through the forest, head down, his steps slow.
Come back-- Don't give up on us-- Red beneath his fingers and under his feet--
He breathes in the cold, the snow settling inside. How is he supposed to give hope when he has none of his own?
He does not know how long he walks or where, until a cold finger catches his chin and lifts his head. "You are late," Seonghwa murmurs, gazing into his face with a darkness that would be alarming to any other. "Tell me what has disturbed you, so that I may put an end to it."
Hongjoong grasps Seonghwa's robe with both hands. "Take me from this place. I wish-- no, I beg of you."
Seonghwa straightens, his expression at once inscrutable. "We will walk, and you will tell me what torments you so."
They walk, side-by-side, and Hongjoong confesses his dilemma-- the concern of the captain, the uncertainty of the soldiers, the weight of duty and expectation he feels too weary to bear. The fear of being forced to fight, seeing more men he cannot help but know die; the guilt of simply standing by, unable to comfort them as they face those selfsame fears. He cannot stay without going mad; yet would leaving not be abandoning them all the same?
And, more than anything-- "I cannot leave you," he tells Seonghwa, his gaze upon that elegant profile. "My heart is enchanted, by your doing or no-- I find peace at your side, and at your side alone."
Seonghwa walks in silence, his brow furrowed in contemplation. Ice follows them from tree to tree, sharp clusters that bristle in crystalline spikes. The air grows bitingly keen, like a bitter wind blowing through.
At length the fae finally speaks. "I cannot make this choice for you. But there is one choice that is mine to make. I will not take you from this place."
Hongjoong stops. "But then-- when winter ends--"
"I will return from whence I came, and sleep." Seonghwa turns to him, his gaze at once tender and sorrowful. "I am the winter. I cannot stay."
Hongjoong steps forward, circling his arms about Seonghwa's waist. He pulls the fae close, pressing his forehead to his chest. It is like plunging into the winter river, overwhelming and deadly-- yet he does not wish to resurface. "Then I would go with you, and sleep in your arms."
"Hongjoong--" Seonghwa's voice is pained, the urgent press of fingertips on Hongjoong's back. "You would have me wake to a corpse. Do you think my heart as cold as yours?"
He pries Hongjoong free, holding him at a distance by the arms. Hongjoong shivers convulsively, his breath stuttering as he speaks. "You wished f-for me to love the w-winter-- and now you t-tell me I c-cannot?"
"Yes," Seonghwa answers, hands falling to his sides. "I have deceived you, and deceived myself. I believed the winter could love, and be loved, when all it can do is take life."
"I know that is not t-true." Hongjoong hugs his arms tightly, fighting back another shiver. "You love as I do. If you will not take me with you, then stay here with me instead."
"If I could--" Seonghwa draws a sharp breath, and then sighs. "I still would not. Forgive me, Hongjoong. This place is not meant to stay frozen, and neither are you."
Hongjoong drops his gaze to the snow, fingers curled tight.
"Your people wait for you to come back. Go to them, and let yourself thaw." Seonghwa lifts a hand again, as though he wishes to touch Hongjoong's face, but hesitates. "Leave this place, if you need to. You must learn to live again, and only your own people can teach you."
Hongjoong nods, automatic. If he lets the ice melt, the tremor will return. He does not know how to face it again.
"Hongjoong--" Seonghwa sighs once more. "It grows late, and we have wandered far. Come, I will walk you back. I had wished to ask you of your ships, but it seems my curiosity must wait."
The words take a moment to register; then Hongjoong lifts his head, all else for the moment forgotten. "Ships? What ships?"
Seonghwa gazes back in confusion. "They wait at an encampment upstream." His eyes narrow. "Are they not yours?"
Seonghwa leads him through the trees, dark towering pines crowded with thick underbrush. They crest a ridge and crouch low, peering down at the encampment beyond.
Five ships of unfamiliar make line the river shore, masts lowered and covered in boughs. Makeshifts tents of similar camoflauge have been pitched between the trees; men dressed in dark greens and browns come and go between them, each and every fitted with musket and sword.
"They arrived yesterday, during the night." Seonghwa gazes down at the men with sharp eyes. "Yet I see now they do not dress like you."
Hongjoong counts the men in rising panic-- they number into the hundreds, armed to the last for overwhelming force. If they attack the fortress unwary, it will fall swift and brutal, with no time for word to escape. And with no warning, the men to the south will find themselves trapped between two fronts--
He stumbles back down the ridge, pushing blindly through the brush. Seonghwa follows with quieter steps. "Hongjoong?"
"I have to go back-- I have to warn them--" Hongjoong plows through the snow, struggling out of his pack. "I cannot abandon them to this fate."
"Hongjoong, wait--" Seonghwa's words fall behind him as he drops his pack and runs. Jongho, San, Mingi-- the rear guard of the half-manned fortress, awaiting reinforcements delayed-- the men fighting to the south, whether to win or simply not to die-- what was the point of surviving if he leaves them all with no hope?
He crashes through the unfamiliar forest, the river a distant guide to his right. Untouched drifts of snow pile high between the trees, frozen crusts of ice breaking under his feet; he plows through it heedless, all thoughts focused on the fortress he calls home. For once, for once, let him make it in time-- and then his footing drops out beneath him, powder giving way with no ground below. He remembers too late the streams that twist through the land, ravines now hidden under a winter's worth of snow, and tumbles through the powder into an embrace of frozen white. Hardened layers greet his back, ice cracking at his feet-- and then he sees no more, all awareness driven from him in the sudden shock of cold.
He wakes to darkness, illuminated only by firelight. His body is stiff and sore, wrapped in his blanket on the sandy river shore-- he sits up with a start, looking wildly around. Night has fallen-- the men with ships could choose any moment to make their move--
"Stay by the fire."
Hongjoong looks across the flames, to the source of the voice. It is Seonghwa, seated beyond the ring of firelight, his robe drawn around him in the dark-- but now, where his hair was black, it has turned as white as moonlight.
Hongjoong struggles to free his legs from the blanket. "How long have I slept? I have to warn the fortress before it's too late--" The cold hits him, a raw, searing freeze unlike anything he has ever felt.
"The men will not move tonight, by ship or otherwise." Seonghwa turns his head; Hongjoong follows his gaze to the patch of darkness where the river flows by. Or would-- he blinks in the dim light, and sees that the river is frozen, its surface completely solid with impassable ice. "They will stay by their fires if they value their lives."
Hongjoong draws the blanket tight, huddling close to the flames. The forest around them is dark and silent, the air so still it is as if time itself is frozen. "You have done this-- for me?"
Seonghwa's gaze meets his-- even his eyes now seem a piercing silver, his lips a pale bluish-grey. "I had not felt fear until I saw you fall. I did not know whether you would wake again."
Hongjoong recalls the scrape of hardened snow, his feet landing in the icy stream. Yet here he is wrapped in his blanket, his boots drying by the fire-- a fire which Seonghwa must have lit, though he now sits far from its heat. His eyes fall to the fae's hands, where they lie clasped in his lap; they are flecked with black, as if by the touch of spark after spark.
"Seonghwa-- you have saved more than just my life," he murmurs. "I know not how to repay you."
"You have already given me your love." Seonghwa gazes through the fire steadily at him. "All I wish now is that you live."
Live, among his own people, in the warm light of spring-- Hongjoong holds his arms, under the blanket. "How am I do so without you? I would rather love you with my frozen heart than bare it to another."
"Then bare it to me." He meets Seonghwa's eyes, silver and unwavering. "Tell me of your battle, Hongjoong. If you can speak of it to no other, speak of it to me. I will listen without blame or pity."
Hongjoong swallows, held transfixed, in that moment of frozen time-- and takes a breath. He knows not where to start, but start, start he must.
The captain has fallen. Sergeants now give orders, carried out hastily even when in conflict. Messengers do not make it from one end of the battle to the other.
Hongjoong is experienced, if two skirmishes from the musket line can be called such a thing; he is a huntsman, of decent marksmanship, and he has been drafted to ply his trade. He aims as he has been taught: swift and painless, lest fear spoil the game.
It is perhaps the only reason he still survives.
The firing line is scattered, medics rushing across open fields. One end of the battle calls to retreat, the other to advance, with no time or means to consult between. Those who turn to retreat fall under enemy fire; those who press forward strike down in equal measure. One less left alive is one less to fight again. Hongjoong reloads from the fallen, faces he knows from the journey north. He fires back for each one he can, an unfamiliar tremor in his heart.
The conflicting orders cease; even the enemy forces do not know whether to press forward or fall back. Those who would command them have fallen, too.
He carries a soldier to where a medic should be, and finds him facedown in the field. He does not know how to tie bandages tightly enough to prevent either of them from bleeding out.
He knows little more than how to hold a sword, but he learns in desperate defense. The blade meets too much resistance, and then too little, wrenching from his hands as his opponent falls. It is the opposite of a huntsman's aim. He leaves the sword where it stands, the dying man watching him back away.
The hours stretch on. There is no one to order truce. He stumbles over bodies and slips on congealed blood, unable to sink into the frozen earth. He cannot find the wounded fast enough, and what gauze he has bleeds through uselessly. Still he hears the firing of shots and clashing of swords, the impact of bullets and piercing of blades. He loads his musket. The battle is not over.
He fires again and again, swift and painless, until reloading becomes rote muscle memory. The remaining forces marshall to push forward, victory surely close at hand, and he follows them from behind, the sole remnant of the firing line.
Victory is close, indeed.
He fires until the other side stops moving. He is trembling somewhere inside, but his hands remain steady. He has spent longer hours hunting at home.
He lowers his gun to see his fellows have fallen. He has nothing left to treat them with. He looks around for others to follow, hands reloading automatically. Surely there must be someone-- surely there cannot be no one. Surely he would be dead before such a thing could happen. He whirls at a sound to see a man stagger up from the ground, dressed in the color of the enemy. The man spots him, and aims his musket in terror-- Hongjoong lifts his gun and fires.
The man drops. Silence creeps into Hongjoong's ears, deafeningly loud. The field around him is red, the color of his coat, as far as the eye can see.
He rushes forward to the fallen man-- he will hold the wound shut with his bare hands if it means he is not alone-- but his is the aim of a huntsman, swift, and painless. He moves to the next body, and the next, regardless of friend or foe; surely there are wounded who can still be saved, surely they will not die before he can find them.
He cannot find them.
He is trembling, a tremor in his heart he cannot still. The field is the color of his coat. He cannot look at it anymore.
He sits heavily on the ground, his musket slipping from his hands, and massages his fingers, trying to uncurl them in the frigid air.
The battle is over. The fortress is safe.
"We won," he says to no one, and no one answers.
Hongjoong gazes at the fire, fingers clamped tight around his arms. He is trembling, a tremor in his heart he cannot still. The cold will not keep it still for him anymore.
He drops his head, and lets himself tremble, lets the tremor crawl from his heart to his throat and spill out into the air. His shoulders shake, his breath shudders, sobs rending from deep inside; the tears he thought he could not shed burn his eyes as they finally find their way out.
Seonghwa watches, motionless, only his hands clenched knuckle-white.
Hongjoong bends over his arms, coughing as if it will expel everything inside. Of course he cannot fight. Of course he cannot hunt. Of course he can do nothing when all hope in him has died. Do they expect him to smile and laugh and be grateful he survived?
At last his tears dry and tremors subside, leaving only a raw burning in his chest. His heart beats, anguished and in agony-- but alive nonetheless.
He wipes his face with the blanket. His boots are probably dry by now.
"It's time for me to go, isn't it?" He staggers to his feet, folding the blanket in his arms. Seonghwa nods, following him with his eyes.
Hongjoong ties his boots and shoulders his pack, dusting sand and snow from his coat. He steps toward the fire, glancing up. "Is it safe for me to put it out?"
Seonghwa has risen, still watching him with silver eyes. He steps forward, and the fire gutters, extinguishing with a hiss. In its place, the moon has risen high above, flooding the shore with a cold, ethereal glow.
The fae stands to his full height, radiant in the moonlight; it bathes his hair and pools down his robe, glittering in the jeweled chains and gleaming on the silk beneath. The frost on his skin shimmers in ornate filigree, curling into blossoms upon his hair and robes; spikes of ice ring his ears and tip his fingers, sprouting from the ground where he stands. And in his eyes, as he gazes upon Hongjoong, the moon catches like fragments of it have fallen from the sky, as sharp and luminous as the frozen night.
He is the winter, in breathtaking glory, as formidable as he is beautiful. And to Hongjoong, he steps close, and reaches out a hand.
Hongjoong takes it, in dreamlike mesmerism. Seonghwa bends his head to kiss the back with the gentlest tenderness, leaving a trace of silver upon his skin. "I will not be here when you return."
Hongjoong gazes back into the face of winter-- majestic, imposing, enchanting, beloved-- and nods. His heart aches to stay, but he knows he cannot. "When I have learned to live-- I will look for you again."
Seonghwa clasps his hand once last time. "I will remember you." Then, he steps back, and pulls his robe around him, drawing the hood up over his head. It falls low over his eyes, fur clouding his face in soft white down--
Hongjoong ducks under it, catching Seonghwa's wrist, and meets his lips in an icy, breathless kiss. Seonghwa's eyes fall shut, fingers threading through Hongjoong's hair as he cradles his head; frost blooms and melts where they touch, as if eternal cold is answered by renewed flame. They linger but briefly, on the frozen shore, the press of lips blissfully, numbingly sweet-- and then Hongjoong pulls away, and without another glance back, takes off into the moonlit night.
The air sears his lungs as he runs, turning all the harsher as a wind begins to stir. Behind him, clouds close over the forest, dark and heavy, and white flakes begin to sweep down in earnest. And yet, the path before him lies clear, his footing sure. No danger will befall him this night.
He spies the fortress in the distance, and hears the sound of voices calling his name. Lantern lights sway through the forest, held by familiar faces-- Jongho, San, Mingi, the rear guard searching for their hope in the dark.
"Here-- I am here--" He races toward them, calling back, with what breath he can summon to speak. His legs nearly give out as he staggers to a stop in the circle of Jongho's light. The captain rushes toward him with a cry of relief, catching him before he can fall.
"Hongjoong-- I thought-- When you didn't come back--" He masters himself, holding his lantern up as the others come running. "What happened? Are you hurt? You have quite a case of frostbite."
"Ah--" Hongjoong touches his mouth, swollen and tender, and smiles. "I had an encounter with a snow-filled ravine."
"In this weather?" Mingi raises his lamp high, flakes falling thick in the light. "You're lucky you survived."
San rubs Hongjoong's back, his dimples peeking out in relief. "I'm glad you came back."
"As am I," Hongjoong agrees wholeheartedly, the warmth seeping in through his coat. "But first, please listen, I must share what I saw--"
He tells them of the encampment, of the men with ships who lie in wait. Jongho's expression grows grim, and he immediately springs into action.
Messengers race out through the night, to the south and to the capital. All hands muster to prepare the fortress, sealing entrances and assembling defenses. Jongho may but be a sergeant, his men ill-experienced for the front, but they have spent years training to withstand a seige, and this is where his forte lies.
The snow falls for three days, a blizzard raging relentlessly even as the air burns with cold. It piles high between the trees, in places even waist-deep; what might be foraged from the land lies buried beneath, and those who brave it regardless encounter an unexpected drop. The river, too, remains frozen, ice stretching to the far shore; neither land nor water will deign any to pass until the winter is satisfied.
On the fourth day, reinforcements arrive, and the clouds break above. They follow the smoke of campfires through the trees to find the encampment huddled miserable and starved, their boats sunken by ice on the freezing river bed. The men surrender without a fight. What victory can be wrested from such a hostile place?
Though perhaps not the turning point, the failed attack and capture of hundreds will eventually prove a factor in the war's end. But before that, Hongjoong takes Jongho's offer and bids farewell to San and Mingi, setting his sights for the capital in the south. The air grows warm as he walks, snow melting from the trees, green tips poking up through the softened ground. The ice has thawed. Spring awaits.
He is welcomed for his deeds, and granted position as a castle guard-- a promotion in name and a retirement in reality, patrolling the grounds in quiet mundanity. He passes the time by composing songs, his thoughts ever returning to that figure in white.
When the war ends, he leaves, and begins to sing instead. He befriends a lute player, the gentle, soft-voiced Yeosang, whose beauty rivals that of the fae; in time, he sings duet to Yeosang's dulcet accompaniment, to a tavern enraptured by his evocative lyrics. The young owners insist he stay, and stay he does, night after night, until one day in their arms it becomes his home.
Here, he learns to live, in the warmth and noise of the bustling capital. Spring turns to summer and summer to autumn, a fire in the dining hall and extra blankets on the bed. He composes songs of forests and snow, and buys a coat of heavy wool, lined inside with fur thick and warm. And then one morning, he rises from the bed he shares to a familiar chill in the air.
Yunho descends the stair to watch him pack, leaning on the counter with a sleepy smile. "Off to your winter lover?" His eyes dance with amusement, his words teasing, but he listens to Hongjoong's songs more closely than most. "You would be welcome in our bed all year, you know."
Hongjoong flushes red despite himself. "I will be back in spring. Wooyoung insisted I promise."
"So I heard." Yunho looks to the stair as it creaks noisily, the subject appearing as if summoned.
"You'd better not be leaving early," Wooyoung warns, his voice still rough with sleep. "I'll not send you off into the woods without a proper meal first."
"I have fare for the road, and everything you prepared last night." Hongjoong gives the younger man a wry smile. "If I stay, you will insist I wait another day."
Wooyoung circles the counter, catching him around the waist from behind. "And what if I do? The winter is cold, and our bed is warm." He presses his lips to the back of Hongjoong's ear. "Very warm, when you're in the middle."
Hongjoong feels his cheeks turn hot, certain he is scarlet. "I told you, I will return in spring. It will hardly be long enough for you to get lonely."
Yunho rounds the counter as well, trapping Hongjoong between them with a laugh. "Wooyoung gets lonely if you leave to relieve yourself." He wraps his arms around both of them, resting his head on top of Hongjoong's. "Shall I find us another to keep us warm for the winter? The lovely Yeosang, or one of his would-be paramours?"
"Don't even think of it," Wooyoung retorts, freeing a hand to smack Yunho's behind. "You'll just have to work extra hard to keep me pleased."
"A terrible burden indeed." Yunho drops a kiss on Hongjoong's crown. "Come back quickly, my love. We will be waiting to hear your enchanting songs again."
Wooyoung buries his face in Hongjoong's shoulder, and does not say anything more on the matter. Hongjoong holds them both close, letting their warmth fill him to the last, and kisses each of them in turn.
And then, he sets out from the tavern, heading for the road north. Yunho and Wooyoung watch him go, the latter clinging to his lover's waist. He will return in spring, as promised.
It is some days' journey until he reaches the edge of the forest. Snow begins to fall as he walks through the trees, tall oaks and pale birches and dark pines whispering in the wind. At last, in the distance, he hears the sound of water; he has reached the river, the northern border of the land.
He steps onto the shore, and there, waiting for him, is a hooded figure in white.
"Seonghwa."
The figure turns, and draws back his hood. Dark hair and dark eyes greet him, a smile gracing lips wine-red. The face of his beautiful, beloved winter.
"Hongjoong."
Seonghwa extends his hand, and Hongjoong rushes forward. Frost blossoms beneath their feet as they stand close. A kiss upon Hongjoong's hand, another upon Seonghwa's lips, and then the fae leads him to the river hand in hand. "Shall we?"
He steps upon the water, ice forming across the surface in a bridge to the far shore. An unexplored forest lies beyond, blanketed in winter's soft embrace.
"I shall follow wherever you lead." Hongjoong smiles back at Seonghwa, his heart warm and alive, and together they walk across the ice.