Bronte stood at the entrance to Fintan's icy prison, just moments away from confronting his old friend- no, something more. Gathering up all his courage, he took one step inside and was greeted with the sight of the goblin soldiers flirting with each other. Seriously that had to be the first living creature he had to see in the morning. He shouted a few orders at them to take their job more seriously and strolled inside to meet the most powerful pyrokinetic in their world. Fintan was dressed in shallow rags and was paler than the moon, but for some reason his hair looked as smooth as ever.
There he was, the love of his life. He even grew his hair again. The sight in front of him was the most breathtaking thing ever. Brown curls, grey-blue eyes piercing into his and beautiful, plump lips pressed into a straight line. He didn't deserve this, no, not at all. Not after all that he had done. He didn't even have the right to stare in this amazing man's face. Bronte cleared his throat forcing Fintan to avert his gaze to his eyes instaed of looking hungrily at his lips, which, he won't mind accepting were looking very delicious.
Bronte folded his arms tightly across his chest, forcing himself to ignore the way Fintan kept staring at him.
"You've lost all sense of shame, haven't you?" Bronte snapped. "After everything you've done, you still look at me like that?"
Fintan laughed softly, though there was no real amusement in it. "Can you blame me? You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"Don't." Bronte's voice turned dangerously quiet. "Don't say things like that to me."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, cold and heavy as the ice walls surrounding the prison.
Then Fintan tilted his head. "You came all the way here just to yell at me?"
"I came because the Council thinks you're planning something."
Bronte clenched his jaw. That was the problem. He didn't know what to think anymore. Every time he looked at Fintan, he remembered two completely different people. The boy who used to laugh beside him under silver moonlight... and the man who burned cities without remorse.
"I think," Bronte said slowly, "that you keep pretending you still care about me because it's the only weakness you have left."
Fintan's expression darkened instantly.
"Care about you?" he repeated softly. "Bronte, you were the only thing I ever cared about."
Bronte's expression hardened at those words.
"The only thing?" he repeated bitterly. "Funny way of showing it."
Fintan looked away for the first time since Bronte had entered the prison. The flames around his hands dimmed slightly, flickering weakly against the ice.
"You want to know why I joined them?" he asked quietly.
Bronte's eyes narrowed. "So there was a reason."
A humorless laugh escaped Fintan. "After the Everblaze incident, everyone had already decided what I was." His voice turned sharp. "Monster. Murderer. Madman."
"They looked at me like I was poison," Fintan continued. "The Council abandoned me. My own students feared me. Even before I disappeared, they were already whispering that I killed them on purpose."
The words echoed through the frozen chamber.
Fintan's gaze darkened with old anger and grief.
"So I thought..." he said slowly, "if the world had already condemned me, maybe I should stop letting them decide my fate. The Neverseen offered me power. Freedom. A chance to take matters into my own hands instead of waiting to be executed for crimes no one cared enough to understand."
Bronte stared at him in disbelief.
"That was your justification?" he asked coldly. "People accused you, so you proved them right?"
"You think joining a terrorist group somehow made you the victim?" Bronte's voice rose with every word. "You burned cities, Fintan! People died because of you!"
"They would've hunted me either way!"
"Because the accusation was true anyway!"
The words hit like a blade.
Silence crashed down between them.
Fintan went perfectly still.
Even the fire around him disappeared.
Bronte realized what he had said a second too late, but his anger refused to let him take it back.
Fintan's voice, when it came, was almost frighteningly calm.
"So that's what you believe too."
Bronte opened his mouth, but Fintan laughed softly before he could answer. The sound was hollow and broken.
"After all this time," Fintan murmured, "you still think I wanted them to die."
"I think you stopped caring who got hurt a long time ago."
For the first time since Bronte arrived, genuine fury blazed across Fintan's face.
"You don't know what happened!" he snapped. Flames exploded violently around him again, cracking the ice beneath his feet. "You weren't there!"
"And whose fault was that?" Bronte shouted back.
He felt like he was fighting a battle he didn't want to win. The tightness in his chest, like something was pinching his heart and the burning sensation behind his eyes were tearing him apart. Why was he crying for him?
"I didn't kill them, Minty."
"DON'T CALL ME THAT" shouted Bronte at the top of his lungs. He couldn't take it anymore, all the lies, schemes, mind games, trickery. He just couldn't.
"Remember what you told me before I left that day to call upon the everblaze? You told me not to go, to not do it cause they were not as powerful as me. And I didn't listen, but when I went there, awaiting my students, I thought of how each one of them deserved a better life, a longer one, one that didn't end because of whatever mistake would've happened that day."
"WHY DOES THAT MATTER? THEY'RE DEAD ANYWAY!" Why was Fintan narrating a story he already knew the ending to?
"Patience, precious. And then suddenly,"
he continued, voice growing distant with memory, "you crossed my mind."
Fintan laughed softly at the confusion on his face. "I know how pathetic that sounds."
"No, listen to me." His eyes locked onto Bronte's. "You always used to tell me I pushed my abilities too far. That one day my recklessness would destroy me." He smiled weakly. "I could practically hear your voice in my head that day, scolding me."
"There was this horrible feeling in my chest," Fintan whispered. "Like something was about to go terribly wrong. And all I could think about was you looking disappointed in me."
The flames around him flickered low and warm now instead of violent.
"So I stopped the lesson."
Bronte's breath caught slightly.
"I told them all to leave early," Fintan said. "Every student. I remember it perfectly because some of them complained about unfinished assignments." His smile became more genuine for half a second. "One of them even asked if I was sick."
Bronte stared at him silently.
Fintan took another slow step forward.
"I waited until the last one walked out the doors before I started experimenting again." His voice dropped. "And then everything went wrong."
The room felt smaller somehow.
"The Everblaze spread faster than I'd ever seen before," Fintan murmured. "I tried to contain it, but..." He looked down at his trembling hands. "You know the rest."
"No," Bronte said quietly. "I don't."
Fintan looked back up at him, eyes unbearably sad.
"The Council arrived before the smoke had even cleared. They saw the destruction and decided what happened before I could explain." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Maybe they needed a villain. Maybe I was simply convenient."
Fintan's gaze softened as he looked at him.
"Do you know what the last thing I thought before the fire spread was?" he asked quietly.
'I should go see Bronte after this lesson.'
The confession hung heavily between them.
"And then," Fintan whispered, "the next thing I knew, the entire world believed I murdered children."
Next thing he knew tears was slipping from Bronte's eyes. No, no, no, no. He'd made Bronte cry. Oh no, Fallon was going to kill him. Bronte must've realized the panic struck look on Fintan's face and laughed a bit then cried a bit and then broke down completely and fell to his knees.
Something fragile and desperate flickered across Fintan's face so quickly Bronte almost missed it.
For a moment neither of them moved.
Then Bronte dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion finally breaking through his anger.
"If they're alive," he said slowly, "then I'll find them."
"I'll do my best to prove what really happened," Bronte continued, though his voice remained rough and guarded. "But this changes nothing about the things you've done since."
"I know," Fintan whispered.
Bronte nodded once, stiffly, like he hated how much this conversation was affecting him.
The icy wall beside the prison bars groaned softly as Bronte leaned against it, pressing his palm flat against the frost-covered surface. After a second, he rested his forehead there too, eyes closing briefly.
Fintan watched him carefully.
Even after everything—
after centuries,
after betrayal,
after war—
Bronte still carried the weight of the world alone.
Slowly, cautiously, Fintan stepped forward until he stood on the other side of the wall from him.
The chains rattled quietly.
Then Fintan lifted his own hand.
His palm rested against the exact spot where Bronte's was separated only by ice and magic.
Bronte stiffened but didn't pull away.
Fintan leaned his forehead against the frozen wall too, directly opposite him. The cold should've burned against his fever-warm skin, but he barely noticed it.
For the first time in years, they were close enough to touch.
And still impossibly far apart.
The icy wall between them fogged softly with every breath.
Bronte kept his eyes closed, as though looking directly at Fintan would make this harder than it already was.
"You always were dramatic," he muttered quietly.
Fintan smiled against the ice. "And you always secretly liked it."
Bronte huffed out the faintest laugh before catching himself. "Don't push your luck."
"I have to. It's the only thing keeping this conversation going."
Another silence settled between them, softer this time.
Fintan stared at the blurred outline of Bronte through the frost. Even distorted by ice and shadow, he looked beautiful.
"You grew your hair again," Fintan whispered.
Bronte opened one eye. "That is what you've decided to focus on?"
Fintan's smile turned unbearably fond. "Because the first time I saw you with long hair, I forgot my own name for a solid minute."
Bronte actually snorted at that.
"It's true." Fintan's voice softened further. "You looked like moonlight."
Bronte shook his head slowly, but Fintan noticed the faint color creeping into his pale cheeks.
"I hated when you stared at me during meetings," Bronte admitted quietly.
Fintan blinked. "You noticed?"
"I thought I was being mysterious."
Fintan laughed properly then — warm and genuine, the sound echoing through the frozen prison. Bronte hadn't heard that laugh in years.
The realization hit him hard enough to hurt.
Fintan must've seen something shift in his expression because his own smile faded into something gentler.
"You know," he murmured, fingers lightly pressing against the ice, "you were the only reason I ever stayed with the Council as long as I did."
Bronte looked at him then.
"No, let me say it." His golden eyes softened painfully. "Every meeting, every argument, every miserable political dinner..." he said quietly, "I endured all of it because at the end of the day, I knew I'd get to see you."
"That sounds incredibly unhealthy."
Despite himself, Bronte smiled faintly.
Fintan's expression melted at the sight.
"There it is," he whispered like he'd just rediscovered something precious. "I've missed your smile more than sunlight."
Bronte immediately looked away. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're lovely when you're flustered."
Fintan raised his eyebrow and winked at him.
Bronte groaned softly and let his forehead thunk against the ice.
Fintan laughed again, quieter this time.
Then his expression turned serious.
"I never stopped loving you," he admitted.
The words settled heavily between them.
Bronte's hand twitched beneath Fintan's
The words settled into the frozen air between them, quiet and devastating.
Bronte stared at him through the ice, his breath uneven.
For a moment, Fintan thought he had gone too far.
Then Bronte laughed softly — not amused, just tired.
"Of course you choose now to say that," he murmured.
Fintan's expression faltered slightly. "Bronte—"
"Do you have any idea how inconvenient this is?" Bronte interrupted, pressing his forehead harder against the wall. "You are genuinely the worst person I could possibly be in love with."
Bronte closed his eyes briefly before finally whispering,
Fintan went completely still.
Bronte opened his eyes just enough to look at him. "I never stopped loving you either."
The pyrokinetic stared at him like the world had suddenly stopped turning.
Then a disbelieving laugh escaped him, soft and breathless.
"No," he whispered. "No, don't joke about that."
"Exactly why I'm panicking."
Despite everything, Bronte smiled faintly.
Fintan looked utterly overwhelmed now, golden eyes bright with something dangerously close to tears.
"You still love me," he repeated quietly, as though trying to understand the words.
Bronte's gaze softened despite himself.
"I tried not to," he admitted. "Stars, I tried." A humorless laugh slipped out. "But every time someone mentioned your name, I listened."
"Every time there was news about the Neverseen," Bronte continued quietly, "the first thing I thought was whether you were alive."
The chains around Fintan rattled softly as he stepped closer to the wall.
"I was angry with you for so long," Bronte whispered. "But somehow I never stopped missing you."
Fintan looked like that confession alone might destroy him.
"You have terrible taste in men," he said weakly.
Bronte snorted softly. "Clearly."
For a second, they simply stood there together, palms pressed to opposite sides of the ice.
Then Fintan smiled — small, fragile, and achingly sincere.
"You know," he murmured, "this would've been much easier if you'd admitted this centuries ago."
Bronte rolled his eyes immediately. "Absolutely not. Your ego is unbearable enough already."
"And yet you love me anyway."
Bronte sighed dramatically.
And so, with truth finally spoken and the past no longer buried in silence, Bronte and Fintan stood divided only by ice—but no longer by love.
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