anniversary

The last day of autumn draws to a close. Blaine stands at the open shutter of his single tower window. The chill breeze carries the scent of woodsmoke, and along the distant ridge the annual bonfires of Soultide billow towers of black smoke against the dimming scarlet sky. The sun has dipped below the horizon, and winter has begun.

The cold air stings Blaines eyes, it steals the heat of his room, and the iron bars at his window freeze his palms. Nearly as cold are the iron bands around his wrists and neck. He shouldnt have his window open this long, but watching the bonfires roar on the first night of Soultide is something he looks forward to all year. Someday, he hopes to stand before one of the fires himself, to offer up his prayers to the dead and toss into the flames small handmade trinkets to honor their lives.

But he cannot leave his tower, and on such a night, the veil between this world and the Other is gossamer thin. Some say the ghosts of the dead may be seen to walk among the living, and the Tuatha demons will take any who venture out alone on such a night.

The sky has darkened to dull ash gray, and the huge bonfires flare bright orange and gold, a proxy for the faded sun. Theyll burn for three nights more. Below, in the feast hall across the muddy yard of the keep, Blaine sees the torches gleaming behind the diamond panes of rolled horn. The music will start soon. A knock comes at Blaines door.

He lets the hide curtain fall back into place and closes his wood shutters. A key rattles in his door, and it opens. In comes one of the servant boys from downstairs, carrying split oak for Blaines fire. Blaine warms at the sight of him, for Sam, with his shaggy gold hair and ready smile, is Blaines favorite. Theyre the same age, too, which is nice, though Blaine rarely convinces Sam to stay a while once his tasks are done.

"Youve had the window open too long again," Sam chides as he takes the wood to the fire. Its burned down to nearly nothing.

At least Blaine has got him to drop the formality when its just the two of them. "I was watching the bonfires," Blaine says.

"Well," Sam says, "this fire could have used your attention better than them." Sam makes liberal use of the brass poker to mix through the ash and coals to bare the embers. "Bad luck to let it go out."

It wakes the slim salamanders whove been dozing in the quiet fire. They coil and dance as the embers glow brightens and Sam adds kindling to coax back the flames. Blaine smiles to see the fire sprites at play, but he says nothing. Sam wont see them, and Blaines mother tells him to never speak of what he sees. Its his curse that brings the fey creatures.

Broadway

"Then you have my thanks for my salvation tonight," Blaine says, teasing Sam.

Sam laughs and sets a log on the fire. "Best not make fun, either," he says. He smiles at Blaine, and Blaine smiles back long enough he must force himself to turn away. He wishes Sam could stay but knows hell have other jobs tonight—more fires to tend. Elsewise, hed offer to read to him; sometimes Sam stays for that.

"Is there aught else you need?" Sam asks. "Ill be going through the kitchens."

Which means hell be visiting Brittany, a kitchen maid of whom hes fond. "A hot drink, truly," Blaine says, "to warm up."

"Ill see to it," Sam says, brushes off his hands, and stands. "Blessed Soultide, Blaine."

"To you as well, Sam."

Once Sams gone, Blaine moves to his chair by the fire, lights his oil lamp, and picks up the book hes reading. Its in the language of the Ancients, a history of their kings.

A short while later, its not Brittany who brings his spiced wine—along with a plate of fragrant soul cakes—but the cooks daughter, Marley. Shes a shy slip of a girl, but Blaines learned how to draw her out. "Will you be able to attend the festivities tonight?" he asks her.

"I hope so," she says. "Weve a troupe of players come this morning. Theyre to put on a play with music."

"I wish I could attend with you."

Marley smiles sadly and brings him the quilt from his bed to put over his lap. "As do I," she says. "My mother says its not right, keeping you like this."

Blaine watches the salamanders at play in the fire, and he wonders.

"Im sorry, sir," Marley adds quickly, casting down her gaze. "Its not my place to have such thoughts."

"Its all right," Blaine says. "You may make it up to me by enjoying the play in my stead."

"You are kind, sir," Marley says. "A blessed Soultide to you," she says, and leaves.

With his book closed in his lap, Blaine listens to the revelry outside. Imagines the children wholl be out in groups in the village, carrying their carved gourd lanterns to keep the demons at bay and taking soul cakes to the poor.

A salamander comes to dance in the flame of his lamp, but darts away when Blaine reaches out. The iron repels them, but they never seem to wish him harm; they just like the fire.

Eventually, with wine warming his belly and settling his mind, he drifts asleep.

He dreams of a wide chalk road lined in bluebells and arched with hazel. A boy, lovely as any damsel, stands before him out of reach. "Come," the boy says, stretching out his hand.

Blaine steps forward with iron heavy around his ankles, and the boy recedes. The faster Blaine tries to move, the heavier his steps grow, and the farther the boy withdraws. The trees close in, the blue bells die, and the road turns black.

competition

As morning comes, Blaine dreams of the boy again. His eyes are blue as a spring sky, his lips red like ripe strawberries against skin pale as fresh cream, and his hair is thick and glossy brown like the chestnut coat of his brothers horse in summer. Blaine reclines beside him upon the velvet mossy bank of a clear running creek. The sun shines, a dappled golden green, through the canopy of new leaves above them. The iron cuffs and collar are gone from Blaines body. Hes light and at ease in a simple embroidered tunic and breeches.

"Is it always springtime here?" Blaine asks his companion.

"Were within your dream," says the boy, petting over the moss with one hand. "You should know."

"Who are you?"

The boy looks saddened by the question. "You should know that too."

"I dont," Blaine says.

"A promise was broken," the boy says, and then he leans toward Blaine, presses his splayed fingers to Blaines breast and kisses him with his sweet red mouth.

Blaine wakes with the skin over his heart aching cold and his lips tingling warm. He opens his shirt and lays his palm there and rubs to soothe. The intricate knotted shape of the demon mark is vivid and familiar under his hand.

The sense of the dream quickly fades but leaves Blaine hollow with a strange longing for the boy. Hes naught but a devil in fair guise, his mother tells him, dont let his beauty beguile you.

Stiffly, Blaine sets aside his quilt and rises from his chair. The salamanders are gone, the fires burned down to black char, and the room chills. Blaine stirs the blackened coals and unearths some red embers. A relief. He brings the fire back to life before going to his window.

He opens the shutters to a glimmering frost and smoke coiling gray on the horizon. The sun is thin and the sky wan. The cold air coming into his room feels clean. He sees the shimmer of sylphs racing each other in the eddies of wind around his tower. Their transparent wings flash with iridescence.

Shortly thereafter, his mother arrives with his breakfast. They pray to the new gods together, and Blaine asks, just as he has the past thirteen years, if he may come down for the feast tonight.

"When did you dream of him last?" his mother asks, and Blaine cannot lie to her. She always knows when he lies.

"This past night," he says. He dreams of the boy every night, but that, she does not know.

"Then theyre too close, darling boy, you know that. Im sorry." She pets his hair apologetically, but her answer has never been yes.

"Perhaps for the Solstice feast?" he asks.

"Perhaps then," she says, but he sees in the set of her mouth that her answer will already be as it always has been: no. The hope she offers him is not a kindness, for its no hope at all.

day

Its a guilty relief when his mother leaves. Hes grown too old to still find much sustenance in her affection, which comes like famine or flood: suffocating some days, absent others. But surely any healthy boy his age would rather be training to join the warband his brother leads (ever since his fathers hunting accident), than be coddled by his mother.

Blaine has asked for an instructor to teach him the sword—or even to wield a simple knife or to fight with his fists—but his mother forbids it. After all, isnt he safe and comfortable? Doesnt she provide him with all else he desires? Why should he wish for peril? Bad enough her husband can no longer ride at all, and her eldest son now leads his men into skirmishes with brigands and ogres and other dangerous foes. Blaine is lucky and precious and safe.

For were he to venture outside, hed be a beacon for the fey demons and their evil ilk. Their riders and their hounds would hunt him down, make a feast of his soul, and then, once taken, hed be bound forever, deathless and soulless, to their host. No sword could defend him against such sorcery as the demons wield.

Thus Blaines days are this: books and calligraphy practice, needlework too (though that took some doing, being the concern of womenfolk), and picking out scraps of overheard music on his lute. He eats, bathes, and does what exercise his space permits. And he tries to make the most of the brief visits from the keeps servants.

Each day is much alike. Though, he wont see his tutor today due to the Soultide celebrations. Which leaves Blaine less inclined to study, though he should be working at his Geometry.

Instead, he drags his chair to his window and sits in the chill sunlight as long as he can bear the cold on his face. He closes his eyes and listens to the bustle below, tries to guess what activities and manner of person (or beast) accompanies each sound.

Mid-morning, Sam comes with more wood for his fire. Reluctantly Blaine drops the curtain at his window, but he keeps the shutters open. He hears Marley singing in the yard, sweet as a lark; its a new song.

"You slept in your chair again?" asks Sam, spotting Blaines undisturbed bed. "Unless youve made that yourself?"

"I fell asleep by the fire while reading of the ancient kings," Blaine says, touched by Sams concern. "Would you like to hear one of the stories about King Agathon and how he created a system where every citizen voted? Or how he was wooed by the Iurian empress Panthè? Or the time his navy laid ambush to a Hordeling Swarm and—"

"I would, truly, but today I mustnt, or Ill be set shoveling manure all winter."

Its a problem with an easy enough fix. "Then, I should like to take a hot bath this morning," Blaine says, "and I shall read while you prepare it."

escape

Twice Sam rings the bronze bell by Blaines door, and Blaine sits with his open book and reads aloud while Sam brings in the wooden tub from the hall. Sam gets it set up in front of the fire, with its linen lining and the sponge to cushion Blaines seat. He suspends a privacy curtain from the hook on the ceiling, and as he works and Blaine reads, serving maids bring kettles and jugs of hot water scented with sweet dried herbs.

The fire blazes steadily and one of the salamanders returns to enjoy it. Its one with a bluish white mane and black slit eyes who tends to come first and leave last.

Blaine watches the little sprite play while Sam unlocks the iron cuffs at Blaines ankles and wrists. Baths are the only time Blaines free of their hold. The collar stays on, always, but today Sam stands before Blaine clasping its less worn key in his hand and he pauses. Theyre very close, and Blaine looks at Sams plush lips and wonders if kissing Sam would warm him the same way as the kisses he gets from the lovely boy in his dreams. Its naught hed act on, but he wonders.

"Leave it," Blaine says quietly. "Best not risk my mothers wrath."

Sam nods and crouches down to unlace Blaines boots.

While Blaine bathes, he turns to a simple telling of the stories. Sam shaves his face and washes his hair with gentle olive oil soap flecked with yellow flower petals. When its all done Blaine stands in the tub, and Sam tips jugs of warm rose-scented water over him to rinse him clean.

Sam passes Blaine a bath sheet to dry off, waits for Blaine to dress in freshly laundered linen underclothes, and then he puts the cuffs back on Blaine. Its a somber activity. Sam grimaces apologetically at the red chafed skin beneath them as he refastens each cuff. Blaine tries to smile to reassure him, but the taste of tears gather thick in his throat.

"I wish you hadnt need to wear these," Sam says. His callused thumb is gentle at the inside of Blaines wrist, before Sam closes the last one and keys the lock.

"I wish for many things," Blaine replies with a whisper, and he tips his head back so Sam wont see the glint of his tears.

Blaine layers on his wool hosen, winter tunic, and mantle. Sam oils his boots before Blaine puts them on.

"Ill send the girls to empty the tub and bring you a hot lunch," Sam says, "and then Ill be back with more wood for your fire and to move the tub.

"Thank you," Blaine says.

When Sam leaves, Blaine doesnt hear the lock click. It must be inconvenient for the girls to take away his bath water while fumbling with keys, so Sam may have left it open for them.

Or for another reason? Blaine steps to the door. Quietly as he may, he turns the handle.

fan

His heart thuds behind his breastbone, and Blaine pushes open his door. When he takes his first step out, over the threshold, his chest aches like it might burst.

There, in the rectangular hall, Blaine hesitates. The air is chill and the murmur of voices drifting up from downstairs echoes hollowly. He spies the rings of keys on the wall—to his door and to his cuffs. On the adjacent wall, a narrow window splays a dusty sunbeam across the timber floor. Stone stairs descend on his left.

Blaine cant breathe. Thirteen years its been since he was outside his room. He cannot even remember the day he first came to it. Doesnt remember this place, not the look of it, nor its smell, nor the sound of the winds moan through the window.

Just then, a sylph tumbles in on the breeze, and Blaine startles. Her laughter is tiny and metallic. She catches sight of him and stops, midair, staring as she hovers. Her vague form shimmers like fractured rainbows in the light, and her wings ruffle the air, sending the sunlit dust into whorls around her. Blaine stares back at the wind sprite, doesnt dare move lest he startle her.

"Hello," he says.

She makes a chirrup like a sparrow and flashes away, back outside. Blaine rushes over to follow her with his gaze, but shes disappeared into the glare of the low sun. Hes never seen a sylph so close, for they wont venture through the iron bars of his window.

He steps back and considers. If he goes down those stairs, he knows not where hell find himself or which way to go from there. Maids will be coming soon, and Sam will return.

Sam, whos sure to be hung if Blaines caught out. A dread sinks in Blaines belly—could it be that Sams in the thrall of some sorcery? A trick to lure Blaine outside? So he may be taken?

Blaine chokes on a sob as the golden moment of possibility fades. He cannot leave and risk Sams life. Where would he go? He hasnt even a winter cloak.

Reluctantly, Blaine returns to his room. He sits by the same fire in the same chair and imagines all the same such days to come, filling up his years as he grows into a man. Filling all the years beyond that as he withers and fades.

Its rare for Blaine to despair, but as he hears the laughter of children in the yard and the bell of the temple, he permits himself to feel the doom of his plight. Would it truly be a worse fate to lose his soul and ride, deathless, with the Host? Would it feel more like freedom? It would surely be less pain, not to have a soul.

He glares at his books in sullen mood. All the wonders within them, hes only to experience through them. Hell not, himself, live a life worthy of a bards song or a poets history.

guide

Sam mustve been called away to some other task, for its the round-faced boy, Trent, who brings Blaines midday meal. With his soured mood, Blaine waits quietly while Trent lays out the silver dishes of tender beef and barley stew, fine white bread, honey cakes, apples cooked in brandy, warm spiced wine, and hard yellow cheese. Its enough food for three.

"Thank you kindly," Blaine says with reflexive good manners. "Blessed Soultide." The words feel empty, and he takes little pleasure in his meal despite its richness.

After hes eaten what he can, he goes to rest. His limbs are heavy, as if his body has decided vitality itself is futile. If the only place he may find a sense of freedom is in his dreams, then its there he will seek it.

Thus he spends the next few days and nights of Soultide abed. Instead of sitting at his window watching the bonfires or at the fire reading, he drinks wine—possibly more than is good for his temperament—he sleeps, and he dreams.

Every time, the boy is there. Perhaps its the magic of Soultide, or Blaines ardent wish for the escape the dreams bring, but with each venture into his dreams comes greater sense of purpose. The boy still offers no answers—most often is sad and swept out of reach while urgently beckoning Blaine to come with him. Blaine wakes with an itch in his brain, like he should remember whatever it is the toward which boy tries to lead him.

Among the strange and frightening dreams are more pleasant and simple fancies: Sweet kisses under flowering trees, undressing in the moonlight to swim in clear running streams, and walks across meadows of ripe summer grass under a flawless blue sky. The mark upon his heart aches endlessly.

When Sam comes, he fusses over Blaines melancholy. He brings medicine—bitter herbs (and worse things) boiled in greasy water that neither honey nor wine renders palatable.

"Its unlike you," Sam says, offering Blaine a mug of murky green liquid that smells worse than the midden heap on a summer day. "You love Soultide, the music, the bonfires—have you looked outside tonight?"

"Its the same every year."

Sam shakes his head and sets the mug down beside Blaines bed.

"Im still not drinking that," Blaine says.

Sam opens Blaines shutters, and in comes the scent of woodsmoke carried on the nights chill. The music in the hall drifts up, muted and familiar. "Come look," Sam says. "The fires are bigger than Ive ever seen them."

Blaine slumps back and resolutely stares at his ceiling beams. "They always look bigger, but theyre not."

A new sound comes from the yard: the musical jingle of silver harness bells, well-tuned and joyful, and the rhythmic clip of several horses shod hooves that hasnt the restless cadence of the warband.

Blaine sits up. Such unfamiliar sounds are usually travelers. But after dark at Soultide, only fools would be on the roads. "What is it?" Blaine asks.

Wide-eyed, Sam stares out the window, and his smile blooms into excitement. "Elves."

hope

"Elves?" Blaine asks. Its the common name for the folk who call themselves Tuatha in their own tongue. His mother tells him it was a Tuatha witch who cursed him as a child, so Blaine does not share Sams smile. "Kindly close the shutters, Sam, please."

Sam, of course, obeys, but he turns to Blaine with a puzzled frown.

Blaines fingers tremble as he presses them over his breast. "It was an elvish witch who did this to me," he says.

"So says your mother," Sam says, and his tone suggests he may doubt her word.

Blaine bows his head and pulls his knees up to his chest. A glance at his fire shows the salamanders are gone. The fire burns more dimly without them, and Blaine wonders where they went. "You dont believe her?" Blaine asks.

"I dont know," Sam says. "I was no older than you, but what memories I have of the elves who visited the keep are not of cruel people whod do harm to a child."

"I have no memories of that time," Blaine says; he wouldve been no more than three. "But you cant think she asked them to curse me."

"No, I wouldnt think that."

"What else do you remember?"

"The colors of their clothes and their tall silver horses," Sam says. "The flaky breads they gave us, filled with honey and cream and sweet orange fruit from the south. Their fireworks."

Its not much, and Blaine wonders if this is why the servants who come to him now are his age or younger. Ever since he started asking more questions, its been thus. His parents are the only adults he sees, and his brother hasnt visited him in more than eight seasons. Even before then, his visits were rare and brief.

"If they have them again this time, Ill bring you some," Sam says to Blaines silence.

That pulls a smile from Blaine, a sincerely felt one. "Thats very kind, Sam, thank you."

"Everyone needs something to look forward to and something to be grateful for," Sam says. "My gran says thats the way to happiness."

"Likely shes right," Blaine says. "What else do you know about elves?"

"No more than most," Sam says. "Theyre merchants and scholars with a town far to the east on the ocean. Its said they built their city among the ruins of the Ancients, and have swift sailed ships that cross the deep ocean for trade. Id wager thats how we come by the soap you favor and the rosewater for your baths."

"That doesnt sound terribly demonic, truly," Blaine says.

"Old Master Figgins, the apothecary—he makes the mix for your medicine—he keeps many books, I could ask if he has any about elves. See if I could borrow one?"

Blaines requested such books before and been denied. Best not to be seduced by knowledge of the fey. But Sams offering Blaine more than knowledge. "If you can, keep it a secret. My mother must never know."

indecent

That night, Blaines dreams of the boy are a feverish tumult. The usual innocence of shared sweet kisses, midnight swims, and sunny walks, morphs into naked skinned embraces filled with the fierce grip of needful hands and damp kisses down his throat. Blaine rouses several times during the night, overheated and sweating beneath his layered quilts, with a heavy throb at his groin and a desire that threatens to burn him from the inside out. The mark upon his chest sinks a profound yearning into his breast. Each time he drifts back down within the same dream.

By morning he wakes exhausted. He reaches down for his kit, finds his prick stiff and sensitive. He does what he can to relieve its need, and he fears that the presence of the elves is strengthening the corruption of his curse. Then he reassures himself that love poems tell of such feelings between lovers, only Blaine never expected to know them.

For breakfast he drinks herb tea with his fruit porridge, and he asks for a bath and clean clothes.

Once hes washed and dressed again warmly, with trepidation he opens his window and looks across the yard. From the direction of the market, unfamiliar music lilts upon the breeze: flutes and fiddles and drums combine in a sprightly tune, accompanied by a singer with a clear warm voice. It must be the elves, for the breeze carries, too, scents both savory and sweet that hint at combinations of flavors beyond his ken. He wishes he could see the market square, but the stone walls of the temple block his view.

Sams likely to be there, and hell tell Blaine what hes seen. Blaine hopes Sam will be able to see Master Figgins today.

Below his window, across the yard, walk a group of three who can be none but elves, for their long embroidered cloaks are finely textured and unusually colored. Around them swirls a glittering cloud of sylphs.

One of the elves—a woman with high cheekbones and waves of honey hair that stream over the rich sky blue of her cloak—pauses and lifts a slender hand. With her hair neither bound nor covered, she flaunts propriety. A sylph lands upon her fingers and she speaks to the sprite. It shivers and darts away, and the cloud of sylphs breaks apart, each zipping off in various directions.

One of the sylphs makes straight for Blaines window, and she hovers, near as she dares to the iron bars. Her shape condenses until Blaine can make out her tiny face—he thinks she may be the same sprite from the day he ventured out to the hall. She speaks to him in quick high-pitched babble, and scowls when its clear he doesnt understand. Then she flits back down to the woman and chitters excitedly. All three turn and look up at his window. A young man pushes a flame orange hood back, and his blue eyes widen.

There, standing below, its the boy from his dreams.

jumble

The boy is somewhat different for his realness, but unmistakably the same person from Blaines dreams. He stands in the stark winter sun with cold pinkening his cheeks and nose. His lips are not the red of strawberries, nor his skin the color of fresh cream, but his hair shines copper and bronze in the light, and his eyes—even at distance—rival the sky.

Blaine sees the shape of his name take form upon the boys lips, and, with that, Blaines heart lurches in his chest like a great fist has suddenly closed around it, and its trying to yank it free of his body—

Blaine stumbles back from the window, and crumples to sit on his floor, leaning against the seat of his chair. What manner of magic could touch him so powerfully? The same that haunts his dreams?

Taking a breath helps a little, but his whole body pounds with the draw of the boys gaze and presence—and his speaking of Blaines name like a spell to compel him. Blaine flushes at how the sight of the boy tangles with the memory of his dreams.

This person, who has dwelt in his slumber for as long as Blaine can recall, Blaine never expected to be real. But there he stands outside, one of the Tuatha his mother warns against. Worse, he knows Blaines name, and can make him yearn for things. A demon in fair guise—has he come for Blaine? Is it he who made the mark upon Blaines skin?

But he didnt look evil; he appeared surprised. Which means... Which means...

Blaine doesnt know. His mind—and body—have become chaotic with conflicting emotion and sensation. Blaine cannot be sure what belongs to him and his own will, and what may not.

Heedless of the cold, he pulls off his mantle and unlaces the front of his shirt down to his breastbone. He gets to his feet and goes to his desk. He finds a bit of charcoal and a scrap of papyr from his most recent calligraphy practice. While Blaine looks down at his chest and traces the mark with one hand, he tries to follow its shape with the charcoal upon the papyr.

If Master Figgins is one who knows about elves and the medicinal arts, perhaps he might know something of this sign.

The longing and the ache leave Blaines body as he works at his drawing. He becomes so caught in the fine details of it, that he doesnt notice the way a patch of stone at the base of his wall shimmers. Its a tug at the hem of his tunic that gets his attention, and Blaine nearly topples from his chair.

A gnome—he hasnt seen one in years, not since they grew bored with his small room and his scolding of them for their mischief. The little earth sprite stands beside him, a smile on his lumpish face, and he holds out one tiny hand in which he grasps a single perfect cluster of bluebells.

kink

"Is that for me?" Blaine asks.

The gnome nods, and raises the flower higher.

"From the boy?" Blaine points toward his window. "In the yard."

The gnome shrugs.

"Will it hurt me?"

The gnome shakes his head and taps his temple.

Curiosity outweighs Blaines fear. "I hope I can trust you." He reaches out—sees how the gnome tries not to shrink from the iron around his wrist—and gingerly he takes the bluebells.

Theyre odd and not only for the manner of delivery. Bluebells bloom in early spring, and these flowers look as if they were picked but a moment ago. The gnome waves and trots back to the wall, where he melts into the stone, gone.

Magic must be at work. Blaine peers at the flowers and lifts them close to his face. Theyre no different from the bluebells Marley brings in the spring. He holds the cluster near his nose and sniffs, seeking their delicate watery scent.

It fills his head, strong and sudden, and Blaines eyesight blurs and dims. Time kinks in Blaines mind, a sharp pain at his temples. He slumps in his chair and stares sightlessly, but he sees.

Hes small—young—and so is the boy. They run through a cool spring forest, beneath sun spangled canopies of ash, oak, and hazel. The floor is a violet-blue swathe of bluebells. Their bare feet kick up their fragrance and sylphs dart around them, laughing.

Kurt is the first one to reach the edge of the clearing. Here, the bluebells grow even thicker. Barely a trace of green breaks their blanket of color.

"See?" Kurt says.

Kurt. The boys name is Kurt.

"Theyre so pretty," Blaine says. "Thank you for showing me."

"Ive never had a friend my age," Kurt says. "I dont want to say goodbye to you when we leave." Kurt sulks and sits down at the base of an oak. Blaine sits too.

"I wish I could go with you," Blaine says. The keeps been sad since Cooper got sick. Maybe, if the Tuatha medicine heals him, his parents will be happy again. Still, the thought of going back inside the dreary walls makes Blaine shudder with dread. Traveling east with Kurt to the warm ocean, where he could see ships and whales and the white towers of the harbor...

"Do you truly?"

Blaine nods."Yes. We should be best friends." Hes not had as much fun with another child as hes had with Kurt. Kurt is kind and witty, and he knows all manner of things. Hes very pretty too, prettier even than the flowers.

"Id like that," Kurt says, and his blue eyes are so bright.

"Please dont cry," Blaine says and reaches out to pick a cluster of bluebells. He offers them to Kurt, and a sylph hovers near, watching. "Here. If I cannot come with you, take these and remember today whenever youre sad."

Blaine blinks and pushes himself up in his chair. That was no dream, it was a memory.

legend

Blaine sits at his desk, dazed and staring as the morning turns toward afternoon. Between his fingers he pinches tightly the stem of the bluebells, and before him rests the sketch of his mark. Thats how Sam finds him.

"I brought you some of the elvish breads," Sam says as he comes in. "They call them pastries, and the fruit inside is an apricot, its like an orange plum— Hey, are you all right?"

Blaine looks up and makes himself smile. The movement of his face is sluggish and numb, for hes been so long gripped in memory. Hes been taking the occasional whiff of the flower in hope of triggering somewhat else, but each time its the same piece of the past. So hes been trying to examine it more closely, as if it may be a legend to all else he doesnt recall, seeking any knowledge to help him understand why he doesnt remember Kurt.

"Blaine?" Sam prompts.

"Im right," Blaine says. "Just weary. Have you seen Master Figgins this morning?"

Sam sets the basket of pastries down and pulls back the linen towel keeping them fresh and warm. They smell of butter and yeast and the floral sweetness of the foreign fruit. "Not yet," Sam says. "Where did you get the bluebells? Are they real?"

"Oh, uh—it must be an enchantment of the elves that holds the freshness in the bloom," Blaine says, and he tucks the stem between the pages of an open book. "It was a gift."

"From whom?" asks Sam.

Blaine remembers the gnomes shrug. "I dont rightly know." To forestall more questions, he reaches for the sketch of his mark, its an abstract circular knot: two threads, mirrored, winding round one another. "I wondered if you might take this to Master Figgins and ask him what he may know of it?"

"I can do that," Sam says, and he takes the scrap of papyr, folds it once with care, and tucks it in his pocket.

"Another favor," Blaine asks, "if it wont trouble you? I saw the winter cloaks of some elves walking in the yard. One such cloak would make a fine birthday gift for Cooper. Id like to embroider his crest upon it."

"Theyre sure to sell the cloth if not the garment itself," Sam says.

"Ask my mother for the coin," Blaine says. "Perhaps something blue or green? Not too bright—and a skein of red silk thread, please."

"Ill see to it," Sam says. "Anything else?"

"Sit a while and enjoy a pastry with me?" Blaine says, "And tell me what you saw at the market today."

The pastries are as tasty as Sam promised, but Blaines mind is less upon the food and more upon how exactly hes going to leave his tower: whether he must wait and make ready for another accidental opportunity, or whether he may be able to create the chance for himself. When the time comes he shall, at least, have a fine winter cloak.

moon

Its Blaines mother who comes after dinner. She carries a large bundle in her arms, wrapped in plain linen and tied with twine. She smiles as she hands it to Blaine. He unwraps it in silence and finds within a deep blue cloak. Its the luscious color of twilight lit by the crescent moon. Beneath his hands, the wool is thick and fine, unexpectedly soft too. It has polished antler toggles that fasten it in embossed leather loops in a line across the shoulder, and a quilted lining of pale silver silk. Blaine cannot imagine what it cost.

"I went to the market and bought the cloak you wanted for your brother, since I know his taste better than a servant could," she says. "I chose the richest one those creatures would deign to sell me."

"Wheres Sam?" Blaine asks. He ignores the disdain in his mothers voice.

"Sam has a new job, working in the stables. Hes good with horses," his mother says. "You wont be seeing him again."

"What?" Blaines hands go numb upon the silk lining of the cloak, and dread grows heavy in his belly.

"Master Figgins came to me today," she says. "He said Sam brought him this." She withdraws the scrap of papyr from her pocket. "Clearly, the boy is too bold and needs to learn his place."

"Mother—"

"Darling," she says. "This is a dangerous thing for him to be showing around." She crumples the papyr and tosses it into his fire. "Trent will be taking care of you now."

"Sam is my friend."

"Your fondness for him has hindered his work."

"Am I not allowed a friend?"

Her lips press into a thin line.

"Why may I not have a thing so simple as companionship?" Blaine asks. "I know you believe youre keeping me safe, but, Mother, is it worth keeping me like this?"

"Its worth it to me," she says crisply. "I dont like your tone, youre too old to be so cheeky."

"Then surely Im old enough, I ought to be free to choose for myself," Blaine says.

"You dont know enough to make those choices wisely."

"Then help me learn!"

"You do learn, Blaine. What else are these books for? Your tutor often praises your learning."

"Im learning Geometry and History, Reading and Philosophy, but Im not learning about this," Blaine says. He yanks open the unlaced collar of his tunic to bare the mark.

She looks away.

"I dont know why, but—" Blaine breaks off before he tells his Mother he suspects shes been lying to him. That would be unwise; she may grow too suspicious.

"But what?" she prompts.

"I want to understand why I have this," he says, for thats true. "Does Master Figgins not have any books that might aid my understanding?"

"That knowledge courts evil. Youve no need to know about the sorcery of the Tuatha. You must trust me on this, Blaine."

Though her eyes are bright and earnest, Blaine knows he doesnt.

number

Later, as the evening darkens into night, Brittany, the maid from the kitchens Sam favors, comes to his room. Blaine rarely sees her: shes usually busy doing the baking. Even now she wears a cap and a flour covered apron. He rises from his chair by the window to greet her.

"Sam asked me to bring you this," she says, handing him a skein of red silk thread.

"Is Sam all right?" Blaine asks.

"Hes sad," Brittany says, and she stares into Blaines fire. "They say youve been sad too."

"They...?

"The salamanders. I talk to them in the kitchen fires."

Astonished, Blaine asks, "You see them too?"

"So does Lord Tubbington," she says. "Hes a cat."

"You can understand them? They speak?"

"The salamanders say your collar stops you from hearing them. They scent a spell upon it."

Blaine hand goes to the iron at his throat. "Fey sorcery?"

"Rune magic," Brittany says, listening intently to the salamanders. Blaine hears only the unintelligible crackle and hiss of the fire. "Not worked by a true seer, but by..." Brittany screws up her face. "A man whos learned to craft spells without the Sight. They call him a spellbinder."

Blaine didnt know there was such a thing. His mother speaks only of the sorcery of elves and demons.

"Someone here in the keep or the village?"

Brittany nods.

He remembers Sam moving to unlock his collar. "Does Sam understand about the collar?"

"I tell him what the salamanders say."

Sam knows? Thats new. "What would happen if I werent wearing it?" Blaine asks.

Brittany cocks her head. "You could talk to the sprites. Maybe see into the aether, too, and speak to the devas. Depending."

"Depending?"

"Whether youre a true seer who may see into all five elements."

"Five? How do you know this?"

"I listen," she says, and then she excuses herself. Blaine worries hes been too forceful with too many questions.

"Tell Sam— Please, tell him Im sorry."

Brittany nods and pauses near the door. "Be careful what you drink. You mother was in the kitchen giving Marley herbs to put in your morning ale—the sort to make one drowsy and forgetful."

"Thank you," Blaine says, and she leaves.

He returns to his seat near the window and thinks while he watches the Soultide fires dwindle to ash on their last night. He hopes too, for another glimpse of the boy, Kurt. Heedless of the cold, he falls asleep there.

.

Despite how the rhythm of Blaines days is marked by the routines of his servants, the deep night is Blaines alone, so when a knock comes in the darkest hours, hes swiftly roused and alert.

"Sam?" he wonders aloud, hopeful. The room is frigid and the banked fire casts the only light. "A moment, please." He stands up and reaches for his warmest dressing gown.

His door opens a few degrees and a rush of wind comes in followed by a dark robed figure. The fire flares brighter, and Blaine takes a step back.

ocean

A sylph glints crimson, gold, and vermilion in the firelight, and the robed figure moves slowly, raising one gloved hand, open-palmed facing Blaine. "Please, be calm. I mean no harm."

That voice Blaine knows.

With his other hand, the figure pushes back his hood, much like he had earlier, while standing in the yard.

"Kurt..."

"You remember." Kurts smile may be the loveliest sight of Blaines life. "You got the bluebells."

Shock has sent Blaines knowledge of words beyond easy retrieval, and his feet seem nailed to the floorboards. He manages only to acknowledge: "I did."

"May I come in?" Kurt asks.

The last time someone asked Blaine for permission to enter, he cannot easily recall. "Please, yes," he says. He tosses the quilt toward his bed. Then he draws the armchair away from the window and closer to the fire, and gestures toward it for Kurt to sit.

"Thank you." Kurt unfastens his dark cloak slowly, as if hes still taking care not to frighten Blaine. Blaine closes the shutters and gets the chair from his desk to sit in himself. All the while, Kurts gaze follows his every movement.

"Are you afraid?" Kurt asks gently.

"Not of you," Blaine says. "Though I remember little, only giving you the flower and how much I wanted to go away with you to see the ocean."

"Your enchantment on it was a small one—a happy accident of your youthful affection." Kurt says. He drapes his cloak over the back of the chair and sits. "Ive carried it with me every day until today."

"Thats the very same blossom I gave you?" Blaine finds the book its tucked into and plucks it free, marveling.

"It is," Kurt says.

"How—?" Blaine breaks off. He doesnt wish to pester Kurt the way he did Brittany, but his whole body aches to know everything, and hes sure Kurt will have answers.

"You must have questions," Kurt says. The sadness upon his fair features Blaine remembers too.

"Are you here to take me away?" Blaine asks.

Kurt inclines his head, but its not a nod of affirmation. "I understand little of your present situation, Blaine, and I dont wish to endanger you or your friends—or presume to know your desires. Youre welcome, of course, but its up to you to decide whether to come with us. We must leave before dawn. With Soultides end, well have overstayed your parents hospitality." Kurt smiles. "Truly, Im just glad to see you again."

"I see you every night," Blaine blurts, "I dream of you."

"And I you," Kurt replies.

"Why?"

Kurt lays his hand over his heart. "We share a soul bond."

"I dont understand."

"When we met, I was recently orphaned," Kurt says, and he casts his gaze down. "My mother was Tuatha, but my father was human. With a split soul, I was in danger of fading beyond the veil without a human bond to anchor my life to this world."

"I was your anchor?"

"You still are."

passion

"Still?" The truth of it is rooted in the longing of his heart and shining in the softness of Kurts eyes.

"Yes," Kurt says.

"Then—" Blaine lets out a shaky breath and reaches for the ties at his throat. He reveals the mark in the firelight, and the sylph flutters lower to look too. "Is that what this is?"

"Oh," Kurt says, and he stares at it, before slipping from the chair to his knees. Gilded in the flicker of the flames, he shuffles over to Blaines chair and pulls off his gloves. "May I?" he asks, wide-eyed, beseeching, one hand poised, waiting for permission.

"Yes," Blaine says.

On his skin, Kurts fingertips are cool and ticklish, but their touch warms and soothes Blaine down to his bones. "Have you one too?" he asks.

"I do," Kurt says.

"Would you show me, please?"

Kurts smile is slow, and his gaze holds steady within Blaines as he unlaces first his vest and then the collar of his shirt.

Eagerness trembles in Blaines belly, and his breath shudders in his lungs. Kurt opens his shirt and Blaine sees it, stark upon his pale skin, the same knotted design, but with its two colors reversed. "Give me your hand," Kurt says, and he brings Blaines hand into his open collar and lays it over his heart. The rapid beat of it flitters beneath Blaines palm. This feels right.

"Who did this? Did I? Was it an accident like the flowers?"

Kurt shakes his head. "Isabelle did this for us, with permission and a promise. Shes the one who raised me."

"I dont remember," Blaine says and tears well up hot. "Im sorry."

"Its all right," Kurt says. He releases Blaines hand to touch his face and trace a caress along Blaines hairline down to his jaw. "Ive missed you so much. Youve grown into such a beautiful young man, even more than I dreamed."

This close to Kurt, touching him and breathing in his presence—the hundred questions Blaine would ask dissolve as easily as honey in boiling water. All thats left is the tender aching want to be closer. "Sometimes," Blaine whispers with salt in his throat, "In my dreams, you kiss me."

"In mine too," Kurt replies. He kneels up as he draws Blaine forward.

With Kurts lips barely a hairs breadth from his own, and his hand pressed to Kurts smooth skin, Blaine says, "Sometimes we do more than kiss."

Kurts lips curve into a smile as they meet Blaines.

Their first kiss lasts a mere heartbeat but sets such a strong hunger for more of its sweetness in Blaines blood. "Oh," Blaine exhales into the small space between them. The heat rising beneath his skin overtakes that of the fire, and Kurt pulls him down from his chair and into his arms. On the thick rug, wrapped in the glimmering amber dance of the flames, they bare their bodies and strive to slake the long ache of their souls separation.

question

"Never have I wished a winter night longer, but I wish this one would not end at all," Blaine says. His fingers play upon Kurts chest, tracing the maze-like pattern of the soul bonds mark. Together they lie in Blaines bed with its canopy drawn closed, sharing their warmth beneath the covers.

Kurts hand rests upon the iron circling Blaines wrist, though Blaine understands the metal is harsh and unpleasant to Kurt. Earlier, Kurt called it cruel. Blaine told him what he knew of the spell on his collar, and Kurt nodded and said, "That must be why we couldnt find you. It wasnt until you came out your room and the sylph saw you, that we were sure you were here."

The mark on his skin and the iron on his body, two different signs of Blaines bondage, but one—though he doesnt remember—Blaine chose, perhaps too young, but with genuine desire and affection—enough for the bond to hold true these past thirteen years.

"Will you come?" Kurt asks. He places a kiss on the curve of Blaines shoulder. Hope shines in his eyes. "I can unlock your cuffs—youll be free of this prison."

"I want to, truly. I want nothing more," Blaine says, but whats no less true now than it was days ago is this: he wont risk the welfare of those he cares for, not Sam nor Marley nor Brittany—nor Kurt. "But if I come with you today, Ill be discovered missing. Suspicion will swiftly fall upon you and your kin, and my brothers warband will overtake your party on the road."

Kurt lowers his gaze and his smile trembles and fades, though he nods in acceptance.

Blaine shifts up to an elbow. "But I will follow you soon, I promise," he says. "Now that I know. I must ease my mothers fears and refine my plans. I have some ideas."

"Its a dangerous time of year for you to travel alone," Kurt says. "A human with this mark might draw attention. If you could wait til Spring—"

"Danger is not enough reason for me to balk at trying to master my own fate," Blaine says, "and without this collar, I shant be alone, shall I?"

"No," Kurt says. "Youll not be helpless, but youve not had opportunities to hone your gift, Blaine. Theres much you dont yet know. Its not your fate alone you hold."

"I know," Blaine says. "I wont take needless risks."

"Ill ask the sylph to stay with you," Kurt says. "Shes been a friend for years, and she knows the road. Shell keep you safe, but be sure to take shelter at night. Worse things than the cold may hunt you."

Blaine reaches to part the canopy and spies the sylph asleep on the mantle, where shes made a bed of Kurts gloves. "Has she a name?"

"None shell share," Kurt says.

"By which way shall you leave?"

"Well take the east road and be in Braeswik before the Solstice."

"Then so shall I."

regret

Blaine watches the elves and Kurt prepare to leave before the new day lights the horizon, marking the end of Soultides hospitality. Down in the yard, lit by the warm glow of onion-shaped copper lanterns, the elves mount their tall gray horses and tie the heavy covers of their white oaken drays. The silver harness bells ring a cheery contrast in the frigid pre-dawn stillness. A few tiny flakes of snow drift down, melting as soon as they land.

The bluebells are pinned to the breast of Kurts orange cloak; Blaine returned them to him last night as Kurt gave him a final kiss to hush Blaines stammered farewell.

"This is not goodbye, Blaine. Well be together by the years end."

For a long time after the elves have gone and the gates to the keep have closed behind them, Blaine stays at his window. He watches the sky pale, though a blanket of gray cloud stifles the splendor of the suns rise. The yard lies silent, stark and colorless in the ashen dawn, as if Kurts leaving has taken all the colors of Blaines life with it. His mood sinks as the morning brightens and the flurries of snow thicken. His optimism and confidence of last night melts with the snowflakes, and he hopes he wont regret staying.

Blaine closes the shutters and turns back to his room to add wood to the fire. The sylph Kurts left with him perches sullenly upon the mantle. Blaines thanked her for staying with him, though hes uncertain how well shes understood his speech.

He touches the band of iron at his throat. "Ill need a key to this," Blaine says to her—and to the salamanders who look on. "Then well understand each other."

By the time Marley arrives with his breakfast, Blaines tidied his room back into its usual morning state. No visible sign of Kurts overnight stay remains, though Blaine still catches hints of his summery scent amidst the smoke of the fire.

On his table, Marley lays out his meal. "The ale smells off this morning," she says, and meets his gaze with warning in her eyes. Brittany had told him not to drink it.

"Thank you," he says. "Hot spiced cider will do in its stead," Blaine says, and Marley leaves to fetch it.

The little sylph flits down as Blaine eats. Blaine invites her to share his breakfast, and finds she has a fondness for the dried currants in his porridge and the blackberry preserves he spreads on his bread. She perks up as she eats, and her wings shiver in enjoyment when he offers her a silver spoonful of cream. When she smiles at him, he says, "Id like to call you by somewhat other than sylph."

She cocks her head and plucks another currant from his bowl.

"You like the fruit. May I call you Berry?"

She makes such a show of considering it that Blaine laughs—which only seems to encourage her. Then she nods once: yes.

shift

With the new possibilities for his future filling his mind and heart, Blaines tower room shrinks even smaller, the iron bars at his window grow harder, and the stone walls loom thicker. But Blaine knows he mustnt be impatient, or he risks giving himself away.

Still, even a midwinter day stretches too long, and he can tell Berry has little taste for imprisonment either. She flits aimlessly about the ceiling, exploring the beams and sneezing at the dusty cobwebs, before returning to perch upon the mantle, where Blaine gives her a spare knitted cap to cushion her rest.

He tries reading to her, as he does to Sam, but she just yawns and turns away from him. His mother visits him after lunch, and Blaine feigns drowsiness (which is not hard since he slept little the previous night) and lapses in his memory. He doesnt ask after Sam—or ask her anything at all. Hes mild as can be and shows his mother a bit of needlework on a handkerchief hes working at: a border of green and gold trefoil knots. She compliments the neatness of his stitches, pets his hair and kisses his cheek, and then she leaves.

His tutor, Master Shuester, comes in the afternoon, and puts Blaine to work at Geometry. As theyre working through the methods the Ancients used to measure time and distances as great as the girth of the world, Blaine asks more about the uses of an astrolabe—inquires whether there may be one in the keep he could see for himself.

Blaines interest pleases Master Shuester, who says hell bring the instrument tomorrow so Blaine may apply its use to the stars seen from his window. Even if Blaine has no chance to keep it for himself, knowing how to read the stars and the sun may help him find his way.

The days gains toward his goal are small, but by dinner time, Blaine has the loan of a brass astrolabe. As he eats his mutton stew, in his mind he sets the astrolabe beside the elven cloak and warms at the tangible shift—slight though it may be—of his outlook.

He tears a chunk of bread from the round rye loaf accompanying his dinner, and his knuckles meet something rigid in the center of the loaf. Blaine stops chewing and picks up the bread. Just there, baked into it, a glint of metal. He digs it out and finds a crumb covered silver key.

Brittanys doing?

Blaine swallows and, with shaking fingers, brings the key to the lock of his collar. Berry darts over to see, and the salamanders sit up in the fire.

It fits cleanly, and Blaines heart beats strong behind the band of iron at his throat. But he hesitates to turn the key yet, for the silver is soft. It wont be fit for regular use.

"Thank Brittany for me, please," he says to the salamanders. If he can loose himself from the iron, hes as good as free.

time

Over the next several days, Blaine finds four more silver keys with his meals: one in a fruit pie, another in an oat flour scone, the third in a honey cake, and the last in a second round loaf of rye. Hes ready to leave far sooner than he thought to be.

He takes a few days more to gather up a few supplies, saving bread and cheese from his meals, stashing a skin of water under his bed (the keys are tucked under his mattress), asking for a new pair of fur-lined winter boots for his cold feet—which his mother is happy to provide—and drawing a careful map of the stars he can see from his window so hell have his bearings at night. He sews himself a patchwork satchel from leftover cloth and fashions a strap of a soft leather belt.

Leaving behind his books will be hard, and the few friends hes made. He wont miss his family.

Soon, on a clear night, calm beneath the waxing moon, Blaine decides its time. After midnight, he undoes his cuffs and collar, locks them closed again, and leaves them in his bed as if hes been spirited away from within their hold. The loss of the weight of them has him soon standing straight and confident. "Berry?" he says and gently taps her tiny shoulder.

She rouses and stretches and gives him a sharp look. "Youd best have good reason to wake me, you ridiculous boy. I need my beauty rest!"

Blaine laughs and Berry claps her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. "Were leaving tonight," Blaine says gently. She buzzes up to the ceiling in a playful spiral and he hears her joyful chirp.

To the salamanders in the fire he speaks, "Please, I need your help to find a gnome? Perhaps the same who brought me the flowers at Soultide?"

"Garden?" one hisses to the other.

"No, the pantry," crackles the second.

A third whispers, "The wine cellar."

And they vanish up the chimney.

Blaine lets out a long breath. So far so good. Berry alights upon his shoulder and wraps a hand into a coil of his hair. "Make sure he takes us together. I wouldnt trust him to come back for me," she says.

The gnome arrives soon, looking curious. "How far through the walls can you lead us?" Blaine asks.

"No iron?" the gnome asks.

"None," Blaine confirms. Hes made sure the only metal he has are the silver keys and the bronze buckles of his belt and boots.

The gnome tilts his head and looks Blaine up and down. "The paths of stone lead all the way out," the gnome says.

"Please, take us out the east wall," Blaine says.

The gnome reaches up a small hand, and Blaine reaches down to grasp it, and takes one last look at his chambers. "Thank you," he says to the salamanders. And then hes pulled into the stone and held fast. The darkness is complete, and hes cast in rigid heaviness and crushing cold. All he can feel is the slight warmth of Berry, where shes tucked against his neck.

Its a long while, without sense of movement. Blaines heartbeat pounds like thunder in his skull, and his lungs cramp to take a breath. Longer and longer theyre caught without relief, and Blaine wonders if the gnome has abandoned him in the walls of the keep, or if hes asked the gnome to take him too far. He cannot move his fingers to see if the gnomes hand is still within his.

He cannot even apologize to Berry. He cannot shed a tear. Perhaps his mother was right—

But then free!

He falls, stumbling and collapsing to his hands and knees, heaving great rasping lungfuls of frigid air. Hes on the hard frozen ground, and the icy crust of snow cuts into his palms.

Blaine lifts his head and sees the eastern road, a clear white ribbon under the moons light, leading off to a wooded horizon. Berry zips off ahead of him a ways and shimmers silvery and translucent as she hovers.

"Thank you," Blaine says to the gnome, but when he looks for him, the earth sprite is gone.

Gingerly, Blaine pushes himself back up to his feet and he finds his gloves in his pockets. Gratefully, he slips them on and looks at the long empty road. Hell be conspicuous upon it, a solitary traveler on foot. Plus, Kurt said traveling at night maynt be safe, but this close to the keep, hes unsure of the danger at this hour. None will know hes gone until morning, and therell be no evidence of anyones help. Unless—and the thought creeps upon him with sick dread—there are others with magic who are loyal to his mother—someone like whoever put the runes on the collar. Why had he not considered it before?

Blaine curses his foolishness and Berry flits back to join him. "What are you waiting for?" she demands.

Shes right: this is not a good time to tarry. Perhaps conspicuousness is one way to look less suspicious. If he skulks and hides, then people will assume hes got reason to. But theres no sense being too brazen. He asks Berry to erase his footprints, and he begins walking, angling across the frozen field toward the road, with some small sadness in his heart and far greater fear.

As he goes, he tips his head back and gazes at the dense spread of stars. Outside is so big. The vast bowl of the sky makes him dizzy, and it could easily confuse his direction if he hadnt prepared himself. Hes able to find the familiar stars from his window, and that helps him feel connected to the ground.

Once on the road, he turns his attention to trying to guess how far away the forest lies and wondering whether hell be able to make it by dawn.

A noise comes behind him: the rhythm of several horses trotting.

Is he found this soon?

underneath

He cannot run; that would be foolish. On the open fields, underneath the bright night sky, theres no cover to be found. Which leaves him few options. Blaines no fighter—and if its a guard or someone from the warband, or even his brother, he doubts theyll harm him. "Berry?" he calls out, and then he turns around to face whatever comes.

Three horses, two with riders, approach. From distance they dont appear armed.

Berry hangs by his shoulder, nearly invisible but for a ripple in the moonlight; she doesnt seem afraid, but then shed have little reason to be.

"Have you friends nearby? Who could help me avoid capture if need be?" he asks.

"Some, "she says. "The night is calm, my kin will be at play elsewhere. But we might summon a wind to carry you or to slow the riders, but not far and not enough if theyre determined."

"Could you hide me?" he asks.

"Not as well as you could yourself," she says. "But your gifts are yet buried deep, Twice-born."

"What—?" he starts with a frown, but its not the time for questions. Then, faint on the still air, he hears his name called. One of the riders lifts a hand and waves.

The moonlight glints on shaggy honey blond hair. "Sam?" Hope and joy live short in his heart, for if its Sam, then theyre all in danger. Having Sam distant keeps him safe. Blaine hoists his satchel on his shoulder and goes to meet them.

Sam is with Brittany, and the third horse, led by Brittany, is saddled. They draw to a halt, and Berry flits over to stare into Brittanys face. Brittany greets her friendlily, and Berry chirrups happily.

"Get on," says Sam. "We need to get as far as we can before morning."

"No," Blaine says. "Turn back, both of you, please. Im grateful, but your help only endangers your lives."

"I knew youd say that," Sam says with a lopsided grin, "But this is our choice. Brittany and I are traveling east tonight. You can come with us or not, but I think its best that you do."

"Weve left a false trail south to mislead those who would follow," Brittany says. "If we make good time now, well not be caught."

"Both of you," Blaine says. Seeing their resolve, it leeches the resistance from him. Affection and a weary relief take its place. "You know Ive never touched a horse let alone been on ones back."

"This one?" Sam says, indicating the sorrel mare Brittany leads. Her mane is as pale blonde as Brittanys hair. "Shes mild as milk and will follow these other two anywhere. All you need do is not fall off. Her names Rosehip."

Cautiously, Blaine steps up to the mare and offers his gloved hand for her to sniff—it seems the polite thing to do. She nuzzles into his palm.

"Here," Sam says, and he tosses Blaine an old wrinkled apple. "Shell be wanting this." Eagerly Rosehip chomps up the apple, dribbles frothy juice on Blaines gloves, and snuffles at him for more. And just like that, Blaines less wary of riding her. Brittany passes him the reins while Sam dismounts and comes over to Blaine.

"So youll join us?" Sam asks, offering Blaine his hand.

"Yes, I shall," Blaine says, and he clasps Sams hand between his in accord.

Sam holds the stirrup for Blaine and talks him through hoisting himself up onto Rosehips back. Its a precarious perch—and disconcerting when she shifts her weight beneath him.

"Theres a rhythm to it," Brittany says. "When she gets moving. Relax your lower back to move with her and grip with your knees. And dont jerk on her mouth too much."

Berry alights upon Blaines saddle horn, and Sam mounts his horse. "Lets go."

.

By dawn theyre passing beneath the canopy of the old forest. Snow edges the bare black branches, and the weight of it bends them into graceful bows. Blaine recognizes the road—the hazel alongside, even without leaves, evokes the memory of a white road lined in bluebells. Hes been here before. Attaching his tangible present to a dream memory fortifies his courage and his hope. Blessedly, his spine is learning how to bend with the even motion of Rosehips trot. Behind them, Berry and a handful of other sylphs obscure their tracks.

They dont stop for breakfast, but keep on a steady pace. Blaine nibbles at an oat scone from his pack as they ride. "How far are Kurt and the others?" he asks Berry when she flits past. The elves have had a week to travel ahead, but Blaine doesnt expect their pace will be quick if theyre trading along the way.

"Three towns," she answers. "Ive told my brethren. Kurt will know youre coming."

Midday they leave the road to make camp in a clearing. The horses need rest. Sam removes their tack and brushes their coats dry before giving each a few handfuls of oats. The horses graze the dry winter grass while he gathers firewood. Brittany builds a small fire of what he brings her. She summons a salamander from a burning coal she carries in a bronze lamp to light it. Blaine looks on, fascinated.

"Is that considered sorcery?" he asks her. She glances up from filling a tin kettle to make tea, and Sam unpacks their lunch: red apples, brown bread studded with walnuts, and waxy orange cheese.

She laughs. "No, its simply a favor asked and granted. The sprites like helping those whore kind to them."

"Its truly that simple?" He glances about for Berry, but shes still gone, having flown off to scout ahead and behind while they eat.

"Yes and no," Brittany says, "for they can be moody and easily distracted."

Berry returns as theyre saddling the horses and clearing away traces of their fire. A pair of moss covered gnomes help.

"Twice-born," Berry calls him again. Brittany looks up too. "From the north, a storm builds up fast and strong. I dont like its look."

vow

"Well need shelter," Brittany says. "Perhaps more than trees. If the sylphs worried, then so am I."

"How far to the next town?" Blaine asks. Sams unrolled a parchment map over his horses neck. Berry hovers anxiously above it, frowning.

"If we ride hard, we might make it by sundown," Sam says, but he doesnt sound confident. Berry makes a miserable peep.

"You sense somewhat in the growing storm?" Brittany asks Berry.

"Its too early," Berry says, "for a storm such as this. Its the kind The Hunter favors."

"The Hunter?" Blaine asks. Brittany turns pale, and seeing her fear unsettles Blaines stomach.

"Trust that we do not wish to be his quarry," Brittany says, and she turns her horse toward the road. "Not all your mothers fears were false."

The wind picks up, rattling through the bare branches and loosing clumps of snow. The damp chill of its bite promises more snow. Rosehip tosses her head, and Blaine tightens his grip on the reins.

"I promised Kurt Id keep you safe," Berry says. "But neither I nor my kin can slow or stop the Host at hunt."

Sam looks at Brittany, she tells him what Berrys said, and then Brittany looks at Blaine. "We could try to shelter here, hope to escape notice while we wait for the storm to pass. Or we could risk being caught in the storm after dark as we ride for more certain shelter. Its up to you, Blaine."

Neither choice sounds hopeful, and for a brief moment Blaine considers turning back, but, looking at Sams map, theyre as far from his fathers keep as they are from the next town. Staying in place might have them stranded in the snow and give time for his brothers warband to find them. Which leaves but one choice. "Berry," Blaine asks. "Can you reach Kurt safely if you go ahead of us?"

"I can," she says, but she scowls and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Please," Blaine says, "Go to him and tell him were riding with a storm at our heels, but I mean to keep my vow to him too, to see him by the Solstice."

"Im meant to stay with you." She pouts. "And I dont fear the weather," she says, unfurling her wings to their full span as if to remind Blaine that she is, after all, made of the wind itself. "Only what may come with it."

"If the danger is as you say, then theres little you can do to protect us. Please, see yourself safely to Kurt, and once the danger has passed, you can return." Blaine wishes he felt as bold as his words sound.

"He wont be happy," she says.

"We must be underway," Brittany says. "Blaine, let the sprite do as she wishes. We need to ride. Now."

Berry hesitates a moment longer, and says. "Ill ask my kin to bring you a tailwind, and then Ill take your message to Kurt."

"Thank you," Blaine says.

.

Helter skelter and through the woods they ride with the sylphs wind at their backs. It serves to urge the horses faster. Blaine grits his teeth and hangs on, bent low over Rosehips neck as she speeds from a trot into a rocking canter. Her mane whips at his face and patchy clouds roll over them, dreary and low.

They break out of the forest and onto the open road, following it fast as they dare as it dips and humps through low rolling hillocks. Sam urges his horse into a gallop, and Blaine lets more rein slip between his fingers as Rosehip lengthens her stride to keep pace. The northern sky looms dark as night though the sinking sun still sends tawny beams of light through the broken clouds behind them. Blaine blinks to clear his vision and looks across the landscape, seeking signs of safe haven. A farmhouse or a barn. He spies nothing.

The short afternoon dissolves into just this: desperately clinging to Rosehips back as she races along with the others, the cold sweat beneath his layers of clothes, his speeding heart, and the stinging lash of wind and horse hair at his face. All the while, the bitter wind from the north howls around them and the black clouds gather, tower, and loom.

Atop a rise, he sees the smoke of many chimneys on the horizon. Sam whoops with happiness, and the horses, as if sensing the promise of rest, pick up speed.

Thats when the thunder rolls down from the heavens and the sky opens to release a pelting torrent of icy sleet. It rushes at them like frigid razors and surrounds them so thick and fast, Blaine loses sight of the road ahead, and of Sam and Brittany.

Its as if the earth itself collapses beneath him. Rosehip skids in the ice and mud and Blaine loses his hold. The sky and ground tips about him, and he slams into the hard packed dirt, flat on his back. Theres no air in his lungs with which to cry out. He croaks a feeble, agonized sound and his chest seizes on nothing. He grapples in the slippery surface of the road to turn himself over. Manages a tiny sip of breath, but all it does is make him shudder and choke.

Nearby he sees Rosehip struggling to her feet, he reaches out and lunges toward her, but shes quick and panicked. Shes up and charging off into the swirls of snow and sleet—and gone.

Tears run hot on his cold cheeks, and Blaine scrambles and falls twice before he gets his legs beneath him. Slowly and carefully his lungs let him take a breath.

He turns in a circle, seeking some sign of which way to go. He calls out loud as he can, but his voice is lost in the gale.

Then comes a clear singular sound to soar above the din: the piercing note of a hunters horn. The grumble of the storm and the roar of the wind give way to the thunder of hooves and the howl of dogs.

The temperature plummets, and the Host sweeps down around him.

It must be they, for the riders are neither men nor elves who surround him. Dozens sit atop their gaunt black horses with their glassy white skin pulled taut over their long bony faces. Their red and white dogs crowd about their horses legs with their jaws gaping and their red tongues hanging.

The lead rider lowers his horn. From his head spreads an enormous span of antlers and his eyes burn like blue fire. He dismounts smoothly and steps toward Blaine. A cloak of thick moss fans out behind him and a great silver cat emerges from the ranks of riders to walk beside him. The Hunter sinks one hand into the cats long pelt and smiles a thin smile down at Blaine. "Would you like to run?"

wish

Blaine would not like to run.

Though his ribs flare bright with pain at each shallow breath, and though he is covered in freezing mud and his face streaked with tears, Blaine draws himself up and squares his shoulders. "No." he says. His voice breaks over the syllable, but he gives it enough power its heard.

"Then do you wish to fight?" the Hunter asks, mocking. "You have no weapons, and youve hardly the size or bearing of a warrior."

Blaine lifts his chin. He hasnt a sword or the skill to fight with one, but even if he had, he knows it would be futile. The spears slung across the backs of the Host are cruel and long, and the Hunters cat stares at him with cold yellow eyes. The dogs wait with keen looks. Even the horses glare balefully and bare their teeth. It strikes Blaine then, facing this doom, that he needs neither arms nor training to fight, for he has his will. Hes had it always; its how hes got this far. Whatever strength or gift may yet be buried within him, it is within him and cannot be stolen.

At least thats his hope as he sniffs back his tears. Terror may soften Blaines joints to jelly and threaten to set a tremor in his muscles, but he stands straight, and he says firmly, "Im not afraid of you."

The Hunter stretches one pale hand toward Blaine and moves it as if to hook a thread around his forefinger. He tugs, and Blaine feels it, a sharp pull at his heart, he cries out and his knees buckle. He crashes to the hard ground. "You should be," the Hunter says. "And so should be the sad, half-born thing to which youve been tethered."

Does he mean Kurt? "No..." Blaine gasps.

The Hunter laughs, a sound like breaking ice. "Im afraid you havent a say in this." He releases his invisible hold on Blaines heart and turns back to his horse. "Take him."

The Host, their horses and dogs, surge forward, and one of the demon riders hauls Blaine up by an arm and throws him over the front of his saddle. Blaine bites back his yelp of pain but keeps his eyes open.

The black horses hooves leave the earth and the Host soars into the sky—Blaine sees the bright gold streaks of Brittany and Sam and the three horses racing along the road. They havent noticed hes missing yet. Hes too far away to call out to them. The Host flies higher and higher through the snow swept clouds until theyre swallowed up in dark cold mist. Blaine hangs on and tries to think a single clear helpful thought amid the harried scatter of his fright.

The bright streaks he saw... it takes him a moment to understand, and that understanding reveals to him, too, the gleaming braided cord of light—turquoise and gold and magenta—that runs from his chest and off into the indiscernible distance. Its the aether he sees, and the braided rope of light is the work of Isabelles sorcery, to bind his soul to Kurts. And the Host is following it like a trail to its end.

Blaine raises his head and sees more: the auras of the Host glow dark bruised blue and purple, almost too dark to see. They fan out behind them, like hair caught in the wind. But, as Blaine looks harder, he sees within each rider a fragile sliver of golden light. He doesnt understand.

The Host dives down, emerging from the bellies of the clouds and hurtling earthward. Just as it seems theyre to collide with the rocky side of a hill, theyre transported, speeding over a sunny summer landscape, surreal in its brightness. Green rolling meadows and trees laden with both blossoms and fruit. The sudden change pains Blaines eyes.

Here, beneath the yellow sun in the mild air, the Host is transformed into fair, warm fleshed creatures that resemble more the elves in their beauty and grace. The horses are sleek and blond coated with shining white manes.

Hes through the veil, and the cord of aether extends still before them. The danger has not passed.

Blaine struggles and turns to look up at the rider who carries him. Even with the glow of vitality, his features remain sharp and hungry, and his green eyes flash. The fey rider leers at Blaine and brings a slender hand to Blaines cheek. He cups it tenderly, a parody of a lovers touch.

"You want to take my soul?" Blaine asks him.

"I might enjoy taking your body first," says the demon, "but your soul, yes, we shall reclaim it."

Blaine hasnt a chance to respond, for the Host sweeps back into the cloud tossed black chill of the night. They ride lower now, approaching a wooden walled town of plastered facades and snow covered rooves. Before him, all around, Blaine sees the splendor of the aether, its sweeping arcs and billowing shapes of unearthly colors, tendrils of energy and spirit. He forgets his pain and his fear as he looks, following the lines and curves with his sight. It permeates all he sees. And at the end of the cord they follow, will be Kurt, whom Blaine has endangered.

A flash of light, bright as the sun, flares before them, and the Host pulls up short. The light expands in a sphere, and at its center stands a woman with streaming golden hair. At her sides hover tall, faceless creatures of sharp, broken colors. Their broad wings of aether feather wide. Theyre not sylphs, but Blaine hears their resounding voices; they call the woman Isabelle. Blaine remembers her from the yard of the keep. It seems a lifetime ago.

The Hunter unlimbers his spear, but Isabelle looks not at him, but at Blaine.

With an open hand, palm up, she sends a small sphere of amber light his way. "You will remember all," she says.

yesterday

The memories dont come in a flood or a vision as they had that day in his tower with the bluebells. Its more like the muddied waters of his mind are cleared. All hes forgotten is simply there, within his ken.

He is not helpless here, is the first thing he realizes to be true. From infancy, the colorful bands and patterns of aether hes known. Its an easy thing to free himself, once he recalls how to look for the fine threads of the riders unnatural hold on him. He can brush them away from his body as if theyre no more substantial than a cobweb.

Its not only memories that return to him. Some of the knowledge hes newly gained are of things before his birth. All, it turns out, is a lot.

Blaine pushes himself up, and he turns to face the demon who holds him. He knows his true name and what he is—what all who ride in the Host are: selfish souls who have refused to be born into the cycle life, who spend their endless days hunting the souls of the living and taking them back to their land to trap them there in service and bleed from them a sick kind of sustenance.

"Neverborn," Blaine says to the demon. "Release me and ride home with your brethren. Youll catch naught here tonight." The demon sneers at him and squeezes his arm cruelly, but Blaine feels no pain.

"This soul is not yours to take," Isabelle says, "None here are." The Hunter has perverted his ancient calling. Once his task was to make safe the souls of those who died, to cut them free of their mortal bodies and guide them kindly back to the undying lands until the time of their rebirth came. Now he hunts the living.

The Hunter yanks his horse up to paw the air, and defiantly he brandishes his spear. In his white hand he spins it, and its bright blade glints dangerously. That blade, Blaine knows, may sever all bonds. The reach of its long shaft brings it close to the tether between Blaine and Kurt.

Blaine looks down at the snow blanketed ground, still some distance below, too far to safely fall if he frees himself now. He looks about for a sylph. "Berry...?" he whispers to the sky, and he trusts she will hear him if shes close.

The Hunter snarls and makes as if to charge Isabelle. Behind him, his riders brandish their spears and shields.

"Blaine!" comes Berrys piping voice. Blaine sweeps his hand through the riders sorcerous snare and pushes himself off the horses back. Blindly, he tumbles down through the night sky. He plummets fast, but Berry and her kin are quick to gather the wind and slow his fall. He collides with the ground hard enough to bruise, but softly enough to suffer no serious injury. Truly, his spill from Rosehips back was worse. Berry zips up and flattens herself against his chest in joyful greeting. He laughs in relief and brushes the edges of her shivering wings.

Above, the Host still threatens. They bang their spears against their shields; their horses prance and their hounds snarl.

"Begone," intone the two devas beside Isabelle. Their energy billows out in vast ribbons across the sky as they gather their power, streaking the night sky with green and magenta.

Theres a flash like lightning and a boom like thunder, and then, the night is dark again, still and silent. The brilliance of the aether fades and melds into the landscape once more. Not so striking or so overwhelming to Blaines sight. The Host is gone, and so are the devas. Isabelle, diminished now too, back to her earthbound self, approaches Blaine on foot, her face is pale and drawn within the deep hood of her cloak. She smiles wearily and offers Blaine a hand up. "I know someone who will be glad to see you."

.

Among the delights the town of Braeswik offers are polished copper tubs large enough for two to share. Thus Blaine sits, submerged up to his chest in fragrant steaming water and reclined into the circle of Kurts arms. The fire of their room at a local inn blazes cheerfully, and the salamanders who dance in it are familiar to Blaine.

From a dish beside them, Kurt picks up a cake of olive oil soap flecked with yellow petals and works up a lather between his hands. "What else do you remember?" Kurt asks as he massages his fingers through into Blaines hair, gently untangling it as he washes it clean.

The soap is thanks to Sam, who carried it all the way to Braeswik from Blaines fathers keep. Though Blaines abduction lasted but minutes for him, the passage through the undying land twisted time. He was gone from the mortal realm for over a full cycle of the moon. The winter Solstice is upon them now, and Brittany and Sam (and all three horses) came safely in Braeswik weeks ago. Since getting word from Berry, Isabelles been prepared for the Hosts arrival.

But now thats done, and Blaine is here, warm and safe and free. "I remember," Blaine begins. Its hard to untangle the individual memories in places, but he finds the threads. "My brother was very sick—dying—and my mother sent a summons to the east, to ask for a gifted healer to come. It was Isabelle who came."

"Yes," Kurt says.

"My mother had promised to pay whatever Isabelle asked, and when the time came, she asked for me. She showed my mother the bluebell Id enchanted and told my mother I was a young soul, just on my second life, and that I had the true Sight and the gifts of a true seer. She said I would be happier with the elves, who would understand me and who could teach me. I would thrive there."

True seers among humans are almost always those youngest twice and thrice born souls, who carry within them a greater connection to the spirit realm than others. Deep knowledge dwells in their memories when they learn to unlock them.

"She told my mother that you and I had souls who had known each other before our first births, that some spirit memory and affection already bound us in a way. She said, too, that you were in danger of dying without a human friend. My companionship would save you. She explained that she could work a spell to bind my life to yours—willingly—to heal you and bring you protection. I was meant to not only anchor you but help to keep you safe as you grew," Blaine says. "Isabelle knew the Host would want you, for your soul was—" Blaine hesitates to use the word.

"Half-born," Kurt says with the gentleness of acceptance. "Its all right, Blaine."

Blaine nods. The dilemma Kurt has is because the elves are those into whom a new soul is born for the first time. But when a childs parentage is split, so is their soul. Half of their elven spirit remains behind, unborn. Thats the draw upon one such as Kurt, to pass back into the undying land. "Thats why they hunt you," Blaine says. Few children of a human and elf union survive into adulthood, even with the most devoted parents. "They dont think you belong here."

"But I choose to stay," Kurt says. "I love my life."

"I love you," Blaine says, and its a strange sentiment to hold in his heart as securely as he does. Its difficult to bring forth specific waking memories of Kurt before, in the time before each of their births, when they were together in innocence. Its in his dreams that the memories of Kurt find their most vivid expression. But he has the feel of Kurt inside him, always, not only because of the soul bond, but certainly made stronger for it. Every moment with Kurt is like remembering him from somewhere.

"And I you," Kurt says. "Im blessed your mother agreed to Isabelle bonding us."

"She did agree," Blaine says, and his mood turns glum. "But she broke her promise, and stole me away the night before I was to leave with you. She took me to the spellbinder, Figgins, and bound me in iron and fed me medicine to cloud my mind and make me forget... and she locked me in that tower. She said she wouldnt pay for one childs life with the life of another."

"But thats what she was doing, locking you away like that," Kurt says. "That was no life she gave you."

Even though Isabelle had promised her she would bring Blaine back every spring to stay through the summer months. "She was afraid," Blaine says. "Of so many things. Of who I was as much as of losing me. I think, now, I pity her."

"I think your heart is kinder than mine," Kurt says.

Blaine shakes his head, and he feels weary of talking about the past. "Can we find Sam and Brittany and go out after our bath?" he asks Kurt. "To see the lights and hear the carolers?"

"That sounds wonderful," Kurt says. "And youll want to try the cakes they make here, and the mulled wine—oh, and see the glass blowers. Sams been talking about apprenticing himself. They make these amazing trinkets and hang them on the fir trees they cut for the Solstice festival. Little birds and pine cones and colorful glass baubles..."

Kurt carries on as they bathe, telling Blaine of all the wonders out there to see and share tonight, and how, come spring, theyll make the rest of the trip east, to the ocean, and he can study with Isabelle. Its so much to look forward to after all his yesterdays spent lonely at his window, longing for a closer look at the world and longing for Kurt. He has much to celebrate tonight.

epilogue

Spring comes to Braeswik with thawing snow, muddy streets, and pink blossoms on the plum trees in the town square. As the roads dry and the days lengthen, Blaine prepares to travel and to farewell Sam and Brittany, who promise they shall come east to the elven city of Afaléon in the summer.

Over the winter, Blaines learned much: to ride with more confidence, to read and write the language of the elves (speech is another matter), and to better understand the intricate interplay and flow of patterns in the aether. And hes learned to make love to Kurt.

The last sustains them both through the remaining winter days, when Blaine becomes restless and chafes at the confinement imposed by freezing days and bitter storms. Kurt locks their door and approaches Blaine with antique books from across the ocean, written and illustrated lavishly on the art of love between men. Kurt knows their language better than Blaine does, and listening to Kurt translate the erotic passages aloud to him, proves to be a most wonderful seduction. Neither the books nor Kurts eagerness can Blaine resist, and Kurts embrace soothes the nervous itch that gathers beneath his skin.

But the road east affords few easy opportunities to engage in intimate play, and after several days spent on the open road, sleeping on the ground in the elves round travel pavilions, lacking both privacy and solitude, Blaine finds himself feeling too precarious and overexposed. He longs for the security of solid walls and a ceiling and door that locks--provided its one he may unlock again himself.

And Blaine cant help but notice too, how Kurts aura dims and the glow of aether around him billows and thins. He grows quiet and distracted and hard to wake in the mornings. The binding between them is as bright as ever, but as the road grows longer, Blaine grows anxious, and Kurt grows distant.

Isabelle approaches him one night after dinner. Its the usual time for his lessons, but tonight they dont work at languages or the abstract geometries of spirit. Instead she talks to him about Kurt.

"Youve noticed too," Blaine says. "I worry."

"Its normal for him," she says. "For his energy to wane toward the mid-change of the seasons. Times when the veil waxes opaque, it isolates his flow of spirit and disconnects him."

"Is there aught I can do to help him?" If he can aid Kurt, then Blaine is eager to apply his knowledge.

Isabelle nods. "I can teach you the techniques of spirit weaving. Ive used them with him myself in past years, to knit together the loose threads of his energy to slow their attenuation."

.

Kurt is a willing and patient subject. Hes been through this often enough before. As Blaine sits with Kurt, picking up the diffusing golden strands of his spirit and winding them back into his aura, it makes Blaine think of Sam braiding Brittanys hair for her. Its also not unlike embroidery, Blaine finds. It requires a similar kind of concentration.

"Can you feel it?" He asks Kurt one night. Theyre sitting on a blanket in a meadow of white blooming clover. The air is mild and scented deep and green, and the starry sky above them is huge. Tonight Blaine doesnt feel unsettled by it, for the careful work hes doing with Kurt serves to ground them both.

"Yes," Kurt says. "Its like a vague tickle in a place I cant reach."

"Uncomfortable?"

Kurt shakes his bowed head. His neck is a pale line in the starlight. "Pleasant, in a way," he says. "Its comforting."

It makes Blaine wonder. Isabelle had said to him that, though the spirit weaving is reliable, Blaine, due to his soul bond with Kurt, may find better ways to support and restore his vitality. "But, Ill leave them for you to discover for yourself," she told him with a wink.

In the past, during their lovemaking, Blaine has often noticed--and marveled at--how various techniques of touch have affected Kurts aura and energy, but hes considered it more an incidental, if fascinating, result. Now, as he winds several threads into a complex four lobed knot near the nape of Kurts neck, he considers what he may be able to accomplish with more deliberate attention.

He smooths the glowing butterfly shaped knot over Kurts skin and watches it sink into his flesh. It glimmers and fades as it reincorporates into his being. He lets his touch linger and traces the dimming shape with his fingertips. Kurt shivers and Blaine sees it pulse brighter for an instant. "Feels nice?" Blaine asks him.

"Yes," Kurt says.

Blaine bends his head near and presses his lips to the fine bump of bone where the knot is settled. Kurts skin is smooth and warm beneath his mouth. "Oh," Kurt says, and he shudders this time. Blaine both sees the light and feels the heat of it flare beneath Kurts surface, spreading out from the touch of Blaines lips against his skin. And he feels the faint pull from within himself, his own energy flowing into Kurt through this small point of contact.

The brightness recedes slowly, but leaves Kurts aura gleaming in stronger pulses of vitality. Blaine recognizes the draw of energy gathering low near Kurts belly. With one hand he reaches to trace the tendrils of aether as they wind together into the elemental form of Kurts bright rooted desire. Kurt moans and jerks, and gently but firmly, Blaine holds him with one arm while he presses the sphere of energy low into Kurts body, much like he had with the butterfly knot.

"Better?" Blaine asks.

"Oh... yes," Kurt says, and he turns to kiss Blaine, hard and off center. He groans into the kiss, and when it breaks, whispers urgently against Blaines parted lips. He tugs at the laces of Blaines tunic. "Its been weeks. Can we? Please? I need you."

In the meadow, beneath the stars, theyre far enough away from the main camp for enough privacy. It has been too long.

From then on, it becomes a welcome challenge to seek opportunities for privacy. He and Kurt make a habit to walk alone together wherever theyve camped, to find those places that may afford them a small allotment of time. They make love on river banks and under lilac trees, on sheltered sunny slopes of hills amid budding heather, and in the dappled moonlight of forest clearings wrapped in the scent of bluebells.

The more time they spend at intimate play, the stronger the binding between them grows, and the more Blaine understands. Even more than the bliss of their shared pleasure, Blaine takes joy in how Kurt flourishes brighter and happier with each exchange of energy between them.

Isabelle never chastises Blaine for his neglect of his books, and nor does she ask the purpose of his and Kurts frequent side trips and ventures. For the remainder of the journey east, it feels as though theyre rediscovering moments of innocent joy and mutual pleasure from both their dreams and the old memories of their souls.

***

Summer comes early to the sheltered harbor city of Afaléon. The trade winds waft warm from the south, bringing a mild air that allows Blaine to spend his days out of doors, either in the enclosed garden of the home he now shares with Kurt, or upon its upstairs deck that overlooks the green garden below and offers an unimpeded view of the white city sloping down to the blue ocean and the broad curve of the harbor.

This particular afternoon finds Blaine up on the sun drenched deck with Kurt. The scarlet sails of a returning merchant fleet skim the horizon. Blaine loves to watch the ships come into dock, with the shining bodies of the undines and dolphins escorting them.

But Blaines attention is held, not by the view across the glittering waters, but by a small walnut cradled in his palm. Hes studying the variations in color of the bands of aether that surround it--best seen in direct sunlight. Isabelles set task for him this week is for him to coax the nut to sprout. In his other hand he holds a slender silver pick with a needle-thin hook at its end. The tool has a strand of spirit bound into it so that it may be used to manipulate the finest threads of energy in an aura. The lines of color are beginning to blur together. Blaine blinks to clear his vision and looks up to see Kurt is similarly focused on his own task: quilting an ogee pattern with black thread into gray silk for the lining of a new winter cloak.

As it happens, it was Kurts skill with a needle that was responsible for the winter cloak Blaine has. This is how Kurt spends much of his summers, sewing as many as six of the fine garments over the sunny months for sale in the winter. Watching him work, Blaine appreciates the price the elves ask for their cloaks. Hes offered to help Kurt in embellishing one or two of the cloaks with some embroidery, but Isabelle hasnt left him the time for such an ambitious project. Hes done little more than sketch a few designs.

To rest his eyes, he takes some time watching the sure rhythm of Kurts stitches, and then he looks back to the diagrams drawn on the pages of the open book beside him. He takes a deep breath and returns to the matter of the walnut.

The brass bell of their door clangs. Blaine startles, but Kurt doesnt flinch in his steady work. "Berry?" Kurt asks without looking up. The name Blaine gave her has stuck. "Can you please see who that is?"

But theres no response. "Shell be out with the ships," Blaine says. "Or helping Skylar in the kitchen. Are we expecting anyone for lunch?"

Kurt shakes his head and purses his lips.

"Ill go," Blaine says.

Downstairs, he makes his way through the atrium and its bubbling fountain to the front door. He opens it without hesitation or trepidation. And his heart nearly stops.

"Hey, Blainey!" says one of the last people Blaine either expects or desires to see. Blessedly he appears to be alone and unarmed.

"Cooper," Blaine says, "Oh no." He shut the door before hes had time to think on the impulse. Then he stares at the door hes so rudely closed and says again, "Oh no."

"Blaine?" Its Kurt, behind him, concerned. "Who is it?"

"Brother," Blaine says. "Mine, that is."

"What?"

Blaine covers his face and makes himself take deep, slow breaths.

Cooper knocks on the door. "Blaine?" he says. "I only wish to see youre well and speak with you."

Upon his back, Kurts hand is steady and soothing. "You dont have to open that door again."

But its a wrangle with his conscience. Cooper is family, which should count for something, and Coopers not the one who imprisoned him: he was a child recovering from sickness at the time. But he needs to be sure that Coopers not come to take him back.

Blaine opens the door again. Coopers retreated to the street. He stands with his hands at his sides, open and empty, beseeching. He seems not much of a threat, so Blaine steps out into the shaded vestibule. Kurt waits behind holding the door.

"Why are you here?" Blaine asks.

"I promised Mother I would find your fate, whether for good or ill. Shes been sick with worry, has taken to her bed since you went missing."

Blaine closes his eyes for a long blink, and reminds himself that whatever guilt may be involved here, none of it rightly belongs to him. "As you can see, Im fine," Blaine says.

"Im glad of it. A blessing, truly," Cooper says and takes a slow step forward. "May we talk?"

"For what purpose?" Blaine asks, still cautious. "If youre here to ask me to return with you, the answer is no. Youll not take me by either force or guile, I promise you."

"No," Cooper says. "Ill not be doing that." Theres a softness to his face and a gentleness in his voice--an acceptance of Blaines words. "But you are my baby brother."

Blaine shakes his head. "You stopped caring about that years ago."

"I didnt," Cooper says. "Please, may we talk?"

Blaine glances back at Kurt, who says, "If you wish to talk with him, I will stay by your side or, if you prefer, leave you in privacy."

"Stay with me, please," Blaine says to Kurt. "Thank you." And to Cooper, Blaine says, "Come in, then. Its nearly time for lunch."

.

Blaine asks the boy, Skylar, who has a room in their house and helps out with the daily chores, to bring lunch to the garden. "Kurt and I shall require privacy with our guest," Blaine adds apologetically. Skylars another of Isabelles human students. Hes not got the true sight, but he has a talent with the sprites.

Between the rows of herbs and the fish pond, and beneath a gauzy awning, Blaine invites Cooper to sit on one of the three couches surrounding a low dining table. Cooper sits and looks about the verdant space and watches the fish swimming lazily in the blue and white tiled pond. Their bright orange scales glint among the pink and white flowering lilies. "I can see why you wouldnt desire to return. Is this your home?" Cooper asks.

"Its our home," Kurt says. He reclines warily and reaches for his cup of wine as soon as Skylar has filled it.

Skylar glances at Cooper with open curiosity as he lays out a platter of soft boiled eggs nestled in a sweet sauce of ground nuts and honey, and beside them sets a basket of warm flatbreads. Blaines not inclined to make introductions; having his brother here has him feeling protective of Skylar, for all the ways the younger boy reminds Blaine of the youth he could have had. He doesnt want Skylars brightness tainted by contact with his own family. But politeness has its own demands. "This is my brother, Cooper," Blaine says. "This is Skylar, a fellow student here and a friend."

They exchange a greeting and Skylar seems no worse for it. Coopers mood is subdued and sincere in a way thats new to Blaine, who remembers his brother as a brash and boastful young man.

A swarm of sylphs ferry out the rest of the food: a salad of young leaves from the garden with fresh cheese and walnuts; savory herbed lentil stew; pink fleshed fish roasted in vinegar, olive oil, and black spice. Blaine thanks the sprites, and Skylar sends them off to play once their work is done.

Cooper stares in amazement. To his eye, hell only have seen the plates and bowls suspended in the air with no cause. "Its true then?" Cooper asks. "You see the fairies? They do your bidding?"

"Yes," Blaine says. Kurt stares at Cooper with an inscrutable set to his features.

Cooper nods and looks across the low wall to the sea. The ships are coming in swiftly with the wind bellying their red sails. "This seems not an evil place."

Blaine laughs at that. "Truly, this is the least evil place Ive been," Blaine says, and Cooper smiles.

But that smile soon turns sad. "Do you blame me?" he asks Blaine.

It would be easier perhaps if Blaine could, but its unfair to hold Cooper responsible for their mothers deeds. "No," Blaine says, "I dont. But trusting you is a different matter."

Cooper accepts that with a nod, and turns his attention to Kurt. "I remember you," he says.

Kurt raises an eyebrow and doesnt offer reply as he serves himself.

"Favorably," Cooper says. "You and little Blaine played together--I remember you bringing me bouquets of wildflowers to brighten my sickroom."

Kurts smile is shallow but true.

"I know my mother broke her promise to you as much as she did to Blaine and to your guardian, Isabelle," Cooper says to Kurt. "Im sorry."

"Naught of it was your doing, Coop," Blaine says. The old nickname comes easily. "You were a sick child."

"I dont mind offering the apology mother will likely never give any of you. And I have plenty to apologize for beyond that," Cooper says. "As you grew, mother discouraged me from going up to see you. She said my visits upset you, but you were too kind to tell me. It was simpler to let myself believe her than to challenge her."

Blaine blinks. He didnt know. "She was wrong."

"I know that now."

Silence for a time, in which Blaine frowns and thinks. "How long are you staying?" Blaine asks.

Cooper shrugs. "I told mother Id be home before midsummer."

"Is she expecting me to come with you?"

"She hopes for that, but equally dreads news of your fate. Ill tell her youre safe and happy and have no wish to return."

"Thank you."

.

For a scant week in a small spare bedroom Cooper stays with them. His horse is stabled in town with the rest of the animals of the trade caravan with whom he traveled east. Blaine takes the time to show him the city, the colorful markets and open air theaters, the ancient temples with their graceful sculptures of the old gods and the public baths with their grand mosaic murals, the pale spires of the college and--Blaines favorite place outside his own home--its public library.

Cooper makes an effort to be open minded. If he holds negative judgment, he doesnt give it voice. He listens to Blaine and attends to his manners, and it gives Blaine hope that, when Cooper takes his fathers place as lord of the keep, it will usher in a better time for all. On the day Coopers to leave, Blaine gives him the winter cloak he had his mother buy. "This should be yours," Blaine says, "though I never did add your crest to it."

"Its a fine gift," Cooper says. "Thank you." He packs it with the rest of his belongings, and Blaine and Kurt walk with him and his horse to the gates where the caravan waits.

"Next spring," Cooper says as he mounts his horse on the road outside the citys gates. The laden wagons creak and the oxen snort. "Im to be wed," he says. "A girl from the north. Im assured shes both bright and lovely. Youre both welcome to attend. I give you my word, no harm shall befall you should you come."

Blaines first impulse is to decline. Even standing here, looking at the westward road, makes his heart shiver unpleasantly, but he may feel differently come next year. "Ill write to you," Blaine says.

"Ill write back," says Cooper, and then hes off, amid clouds of dust and the rumbling crunch of wagon wheels.

Hand in hand, Kurt and Blaine walk back through the city from the gate. The morning is fresh and warm, and the air sweet with jasmine. Blaine has a pang of melancholy wedged in his chest. Not homesickness, not missing things as they were, but missing having grown up a different way, knowing both Cooper and Kurt. If promises had been kept...

Kurt reads his moods well--as well as if he could see into the aether around Blaine. "I was thinking," Kurt says, and he pulls Blaine closer against his side as they wend their way through the streets, taking a lazy path down toward the docks rather than straight home.

"Hmm?" Blaine asks.

"Every winter, Isabelle likes to leave the city--the storms are wretched. In previous years, weve always traveled inland with the merchants," Kurt says. He leads Blaine to an open air food shop where they can get a snack of sweet pastries and cold drinks. They sit at a table near the street. "Every year, I hoped we might find you, Isabelle knew you yet lived, though she couldnt trace you. All I had were my dreams and a hope." Kurt smiles. "I understand if you dont wish to travel west this winter--or ever again."

"You have different ideas for this coming season?" Blaine asks. The drink he has is the sweet chilled juice of an exotic red melon, just come in yesterday. Hes unsure what particular sorcery makes it possible to fill his cup with chips of ice to keep it cold, but hes grateful for it.

Kurt looks out toward the docks. Theyre quiet this morning. A handful of ships with furled sails whose crew are resting. They creak and rock with the sleepy motion of the sea. "Ive always wanted to cross the ocean, but I couldnt without you beside me," Kurt says.

"The open waters energies wouldve broken a soul bond stretched so thinly," Blaine says.

"Yes," Kurt says. "But at the end of this summer--we could take a ship and travel together to Iuria. Spend the season in the mild south where the olive orchards grow and the sea is shallow and warm all winter. Its a long way, but Ive always wanted to see their lands, and I know how you love Iurian poetry and song." Theres somewhat both sly and affectionate in the smile Kurt slides Blaine along with his hand, palm up, across the top of their table. "If youre up for another adventure?" Kurt speaks as if its a challenge, but all Blaine hears is invitation.

"With you?" Blaine asks, and he places his hand in Kurts. "Always."