Once the sun truly began to set and the sky was painted with dusk’s orange and blue ombre, and the wind picked up its speed to rattle the lattices, Rhys took a deep breath. The ride had not been as awkward as he’d assumed, and neither had been bringing in all of their luggage. Well, Alaric brought it in, considering Rhys had yet to know what there was for him amongst it. 

It was all rather peaceful up in the mountains, far from the smell of smoke and the skies so smoky you could not see the clouds. In the mountains, Rhys could see every constellation. He recalled Aris pointing out the Big and Little Dipper to him each time they lay on their backs in the tall sweetgrass and stargaze as children. 

“Rhys, would you hand me the coat behind you?” Alaric’s deep voice broke through the prince’s peace. Rhys nodded, grabbing the fur coat with two hands. Rhys could not believe the weight of that thing—he could not believe Alaric walked around with it on his back all day. With a coat that heavy, Rhys wouldn’t be sure if he was even capable of standing upright.

Alaric adored that coat. Each time it was out of his sight, his eyes widened slightly and his shoulders would tense until he found it—it was often in the same place he left it while he was busy tending to other things.

Alaric shrugged the coat on and sat on the edge of the small bed, using a poker to move the wood, growing the fire in the hearth. Rhys took in the small cabin and all its memorable trinkets—the wooden train Aris would roll about the circular carpet in the sitting room, the empty vases where Fern would plant small flowers and herbs in, the sword Callum kept leaned against the wall near the door and coat hooks for hunting. Rhys should have felt sad, he should have cried and felt his stomach turn and that all too familiar clench of his heart that ignited the low burning fire of hatred simmering for Alaric. But after their conversation, after learning what he now knew, and after weeks of grief, all Rhys could feel was the bittersweetness of nostalgia coursing through his veins. 

His family was gone and he could not bring them back. No matter how much he cried and screamed and cursed and prayed, they would never return. But memory lasts. It can be preserved through the small things he sees through living life. A slender hand clutched the sapphire pendant at his throat, and Rhys did not realize until he looked up once more to meet Alaric’s eyes, that he was smiling. And Alaric was smiling, too.

“Let’s go outside.”

“Very well.”

Rhys did not bother with a coat, despite Alaric’s attempt to grab one for him. His feet fell through the snow until he was ankle deep in it. The cold bit through his boots immediately. Rhys gasped, then huffed a breath of delighted laughter, marvelling at how beautiful something as simple as snow could be. It was a relief, a new beginning. The leaves had not all fallen yet in Vaust, but there was early snow in the mountains. Rhys took it as a sign from the gods—something was slowly changing, and something new had already come at the same time.

Alaric stood a few paces behind him, watching with a faint crease between his brows. “You’re going to freeze.”

“I am not.”

“You are not wearing a coat.”

“I have survived worse.”

“That is hardly an argument.”

Rhys turned around, walking backward through the snow. “You worry too much.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

The snow continued to fall between them, delicate flakes catching in Rhys’s hair and melting against his cheeks. He looked down at the snow around his boots, then back at Alaric. Something mischievous stirred in his chest. It was childish. Ridiculous, even. He bent down.

Alaric's expression changed immediately. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

Rhys gathered a handful of snow.

“Rhys.” 

The prince packed it between his palms. Alaric stared at him with the sort of expression one might give a particularly troublesome child.

Rhys smiled, then he threw it. The snowball struck Alaric squarely in the chest. For several seconds, there was an eerie silence. Rhys’ smile faltered, why on earth would he do that?

Alaric looked down at the snow scattered across his coat. Then he slowly looked back at Rhys. Rhys swallowed. Alaric bent down and scooped up a mound of snow with one hand.

The snowball struck him in the shoulder. Rhys stumbled backwards, laughing despite himself.

“You—” He spun around, already gathering another handful.

Alaric was smiling. Not the small, polite smile he had given him inside the cabin. Not the distant expression Rhys had seen when Alaric spoke with soldiers. A real smile.

Rhys threw another snowball. Rhys' first few snowballs fell apart before leaving his hands, while Alaric's were so large that they barely stayed together. One struck Rhys' shoulder. Another missed Alaric entirely and disappeared into the snow.

Rhys laughed so hard his stomach hurt. Alaric laughed, too.

It was strange. The sound seemed almost foreign coming from him; Rhys had heard Alaric give orders. He had heard him sigh, growl, speak quietly, and once or twice raise his voice, but he had never heard him laugh. Rhys ducked behind a tree, desperately trying to catch his breath.

Alaric's footsteps approached through the snow. “Come out.”

“No.”

“Rhys.”

“You will throw another snowball at me.”

“That is the purpose of the game.”

“I refuse.”

“You started it.”

Rhys peeked around the tree.

Alaric stood several feet away, snow clinging to his shoulders and beard. He looked ridiculous.

Rhys burst into laughter again, Alaric's brows rose.

“You find this amusing?”

“You look—” Rhys could barely speak through his laughter. “You look ridiculous.”

“So do you.”

Rhys looked down at himself. His hair was covered in snow, his cheeks were bright red from the cold, and his clothing was damp from the battle.

He frowned. “I do not.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I am still beautiful.”

Alaric's expression softened. “Yes.”

Rhys blinked. The laughter slowly faded from his face as Alaric stepped closer.

“You are.”

Something fluttered strangely beneath Rhys's ribs. He looked away.

“Do not say things like that.”

“Why?”

Rhys struggled for an answer. Because he didn't know what to do with kindness. Because he was beginning to realize that Alaric had been kind to him long before Rhys had ever allowed himself to notice. Because yesterday, he had hated this man. And today, he had laughed with him.

“I don't know,” Rhys finally admitted. Alaric stopped a few feet away.

Neither spoke. The snow fell quietly around them. Rhys looked at him again.

For the first time, he noticed how tired Alaric looked. The faint lines around his eyes. The scar cutting across his face. The snow caught in his dark hair. His coat hung heavily from his shoulders, and his breath came out in small clouds. Yet his eyes were warm. Rhys wondered when they had become warm, perhaps they always had been. Perhaps Rhys had simply never looked closely enough. Alaric stepped forward.

Rhys did not move away.

The commander hesitated.

For once, Alaric seemed uncertain. His hand slowly lifted, stopping just beside Rhys's cheek as though asking permission without words.

Rhys's heart pounded. He did not understand why. Alaric gently brushed a melting snowflake from his cheek.

Alaric leaned closer, slowly, giving Rhys every opportunity to step away. When he didn't, their lips met. It was brief and soft—almost painfully gentle. And so, the same man who had taken Rhys’ home and family had taken his first kiss. 

When Alaric pulled away, Rhys simply stared at him. 

For the first time in years, Rhys did not think of fire. He thought of snow. And the warmth of someone else's lips.

It was a shame they were attached to Alaric.