#sfics

“What? What happened?” the man asked. “I ain’t never seen you without him. And he said to meet—”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” Egill snapped. “He’s gone. They fucking killed him.”

“What?” he repeated, stupidly. Egill did not have the patience for this right now. He’d just lost his brother, the stupid idiot, he told him it was a bad idea to linger in that stupid town—

“Søren, leave the man alone,” another voice interrupted before the stupid man—Søren, then—could say anything else. His companion came around a corner of the cabin Egill had spent the night at, wiping his hands on his large coat. Egill had thought Søren was tall, even from up on the porch looking down, but this man dwarfed him. He was a lot broader, and his jaw was sharp.

He took his hat off, revealing piercing blue eyes over narrow glasses.

“Sorry to hear about Einar,” he rumbled.

Clenching his jaw, Egill nodded.

The two men climbed up on the porch, and Egill sat silently as they went inside. He’d been trying to write in his journal, but couldn’t really find the words to describe what had transpired. Einar had told him to go here if something bad happened to him, to find this cabin hidden near an abandoned mine in the mountains near Kai’s Bend, and to wait for people he could trust, but he had no idea what to do now.

Heavy footsteps on the wood, stopping next to him.

“Didn’t mention my name,” said the tall man, now just in his shirt and vest, a necktie tucked into it. “’M Torbjörn. Søren’s my cousin.”

“I’m Egill,” Egill replied, doodling in the margins of his journal. He may already know that.

“You want some food? Be happy to share.”

Egill looked up at him, sighing. Though he took some of his and Einar’s supply, he had barely eaten anything since he took the stagecoach out of that stupid town, almost three days ago; he had seen smoke rising behind him as he traveled.

“I’d like that.” He closed his journal. Torbjörn held the door open to let him in, which almost got a smile out of him.

The food turned out to be some dried meat, crackers, and some vegetables that the men must have foraged on the way up the mountain, which Søren was warming on the small stove. It smelled good. The man, now sans hat, glanced over at Egill as he sat, but said nothing for the moment. Torbjörn sat down as well, handing him a strip of dried meat. Egill nibbled on it.

“Coffee,” Søren said, and started digging in a bag. “Torbjörn, did—”

“Other one,” he said, without even looking. This time, Egill did smile, tiredly.

Søren unearthed the tin he was looking for triumphantly.

“You want some?” he asked Egill.

“Yes, please.”

Egill was silent as they ate, while the two men talked casually about what they’d seen on the way up here, seemingly with each other although they were obviously both there at the time. He mostly ignored them, but it was nice to have some noise, Egill would admit. It made it easier to drown out his thoughts.

“Egill?” Torbjörn asked, and he blinked at the man over his empty cup.

“Sorry?”

“Was asking where you’re going now.”

“I don’t—Einar usually made the plans.”

“Hm.”

Søren stood to go back to his pack and pulled out a map. Egil had to hastily lift his plate when he went to spread the paper on the table. It was a map of the whole country, and so the old mine wasn’t marked, but the man pointed.

“We’re ‘round here. Torbjörn and I, we do this loop ‘round the whole peninsula, findin’ work along the way. You and your brother have a set itinerary like that?”

“Not really.” The country was large, but Egill felt like it was closing in on him, now. Like it would never be the same, from the mountains all the way down to the beaches in the south.

“I need to leave,” he mumbled, his throat closing up. “I can’t—”

“The country?” Søren asked. “We know some people down in Havenbridge, brothers. They’ll get you on a boat anywhere you’d like.”

Egill found the city way on the southern point of the peninsula. It was a long way, but here in the north, the mountains were nearly impassable even in the spring, so a boat was the only viable way to leave.

“You can come with us,” Søren added. “Much cheaper than gettin’ on a train or a stagecoach.”

A large part of Egill dreaded having to spend so much time with people he didn’t know, but he didn’t have nearly enough money to get down to the city any other way. Walking would take months, and even then, how would he find these brothers with the boat Søren apparently knew?

“Alright,” he sighed, and then yelped in alarm when Søren clapped him on the back.

They spent the night at the cabin, Egill tossing and turning restlessly up in the loft while Torbjörn rumbled snores and Søren mumbled in his sleep downstairs. When he finally fell asleep, his dreams were full of fire.

In the morning, it was the smell of coffee that woke Egill. Søren was alone downstairs, his long coat already on. It had a lining just as red as his hat, which seemed a little ostentatious to Egill and clashed with his coppery hair.

“Mornin’!” the man said, much too brightly. “Torbjörn’s packin’, he’s taken your things out to the horses too.”

Mildly annoyed, Egill pulled his boots on and went outside to find the other man by the side of the house, securing saddlebags to a grey horse’s saddle. Egill’s meager belongings were set on the wooden banister of the porch, leaning against the wall. He went over to take out his journal and, after some consideration, his knife. Torbjörn just hummed silently, seemingly unbothered.

It was a sunny spring day, still cool up in the mountains. Good weather for traveling. When Torbjörn held his hand out, Egill handed him his bag, which he added to the saddle.

“Think you’ll be alright riding with Søren?” he asked, patting his horse.

“Søren?” Egill asked, surprised. He hadn’t considered… The other horse, a chestnut mare, had fewer saddlebags, he noticed. “Can’t I… Walk?”

Torbjörn’s lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile.

“While we’re up here, probably. Don’t think you can keep up with a trot, though.”

“I’ve got—I’ve got stamina,” Egill protested, then felt his cheeks flush when the tall man’s eyebrows rose. “I’ll share with Søren.”

He hurried back inside to drink coffee, and he wrote briefly in his journal, recording the date and place. In the margin, he drew a complex pattern of intersecting lines—a new stave that he could use, although he wasn’t sure yet what for.

“You do that too, huh?” Søren asked. Egill snapped the notebook closed on instinct.

“Einar was better at it,” he mumbled, looking up over his shoulder.

“Ain’t that just the way.” Søren shrugged. “Could come in handy. I ain’t never met anyone else like you two. Real amazin’.”

This time, his hand landed softly on Egill’s shoulder. He squeezed quickly. Egill stood, shrugging him off.

“Are we leaving?”

Søren blinked, then nodded and grinned, saying, “Let me introduce you to my horse!”

The horse, it turned out, was named Harald, and Søren just shrugged and grinned some more when Egill pointed out that it was, in fact, female. Torbjörn, behind Søren’s back, raised his eyebrows again, unimpressed overtop his glasses, and Egill smiled.

It’d been a while since he’d ridden, but once they made their way down to a relatively well-kept dirt road that must lead up to Kai’s Bend eventually, he agreed to get on Harald behind Søren. Torbjörn stood next to the horse, seemingly ready to help, as if he were a child. Harald, to her credit, seemed perfectly content to stand still while Egill awkwardly put his foot in the stirrup and tried not to grab any part of Søren, who scooted forward, as he tried to swing himself up.

“Here,” said Torbjörn. “Lean on me.”

Egill wasn’t sure that was better. Flushing again, he leaned one hand on Torbjörn’s broad shoulder to give himself leverage, and then squeaked embarrassingly when the man grabbed his waist with his massive hands, all but lifting him onto Harald.

Once Egill was on, Søren had to reach back and grab his thigh to prevent him from toppling off the other side.

“Fuck,” he yelped, instinctively grabbing his flashy coat. “Okay, I’m—I’m here.” He wriggled his foot out of the stirrup so Søren could put his in and tried to lean back against the saddlebags, putting distance between them. Søren patted his thigh while Torbjörn mounted his grey horse, and off they went.

The road was pretty quiet. The three of them passed one cart carrying timber, the driver of which greeted them amicably, and only two or three people on horseback going up to Kai’s Bend. Egill kept leaning back, holding the saddlebags, and was actually quite comfortable. Søren tried to talk to him, asking him about his and Einar’s previous travels, but he pretended he hadn’t heard, and the man took the hint after a while, speaking to his cousin instead.

After maybe an hour or two, the road opened up into the valley, where the river was fast and deep and Egill, peering around Søren, could see several buildings dotted along the banks. They stopped for a moment.

“If we just follow the river, we should be able to get to Havenbridge in about three weeks,” Søren said over his shoulder. Egill hummed, shifting. Harald shook her head, and Søren knocked her on the neck gently, saying, “Good girl!”

They rode down into the valley, encountering some more people, and eventually stopped for a break at the riverside, eating some more dried meat. Søren cracked his back and wandered down to the water with the horses so they could drink.

Egill looked up at the mountains, shading his eyes, at least until Torbjörn appeared next to him and silently offered him a hat. Luckily, it was just a plain brown one. Egill put it on, nodding his thanks.

“Got a question,” Torbjörn said.

“Yes?”

“Can you hunt?”

“Hunt?”

“’S a long way down to the city. Normally, we’d stop, earn some money to get supplies.”

“Right.” Egill looked up at him. “I can make snares.” Ones that were effective and quick, thanks to magic staves carved into the materials.

“Good.” Torbjörn nodded. “Søren’s… Loud.”

At that, Egill laughed abruptly. The sound felt rusty to him, but it made Torbjörn definitely smile, his light eyes glittering in the shadow of his hat.

“That makes sense.”

“You comfortable on there?” Torbjörn nodded towards where Harald was eating riverside plants.

“Enough,” Egill shrugged. Another hum, the smile still playing around his full lips.

As they continued their journey, Egill was grateful for the hat, because it felt much warmer down here, and he knew he was prone to burning—and he couldn’t imagine that Torbjörn and Søren weren’t, both having very light skin and freckles, Søren more than Torbjörn. There were even some on the back of his neck, where his coppery hair curled against his collar.

Egill stared unseeingly at the bit of skin, imagining new staves. He stared until his eyelids drooped, and his head lurched forward suddenly, knocking against Søren’s back. He shot up, grabbing his hat as Søren grabbed for him, shouting in alarm.

“Egill?” asked Torbjörn, trotting over on his horse.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Egill said, heart pounding. He’d grabbed Søren’s arm, the man’s hand on his hips again.

“Sleepy?” Torbjörn guessed. “’S getting late anyway, should find a place to rest.”

It was getting dark already, Egill noticed with a jolt. Most of the valley was deep in shadow.

None of them, of course, were strangers to spending the night outside, and so it was quick work to set up a little camp, securing canvas to trees for shelter and starting a little fire, which Torbjörn was in charge of.

Egill, out of habit, sought out a large rock and carried it into the light, taking out some charcoal to etch protective staves on its surface.

“Oh, what’s that for?” Søren asked curiously. Torbjörn frowned as he got out a pan.

“This one’s for protection from wildlife,” Egill explained. And, finishing the other symbol, “This one is to help keep us alert in sleep.”

“Very nice!” Søren clapped him on the back. “Ain’t that right, Torbjörn?”

“’F you believe it,” the man rumbled, pouring something into his pan. “Can’t hurt.”

Egill was a little confused by this difference in belief, but he didn’t mind. He knew what he could do. He concentrated on the stone, pouring power in, and then set it next to the fire.

Nothing happened during the night. He slept better.

In fact, nothing much happened for the next three days of travel. The three of them made steady progress south along the river, with Egill riding behind Torbjörn for one of them, but that made his thighs ache more than they already had, and he couldn’t see anything around his broad back, so he gave up on that to ride Harald with Søren. The landscape was slowly changing into hills, wildly in bloom with spring flowers that made Egill sneeze.

He caught rabbits in his snares that they had for dinner, with Torbjörn pointing out herbs for him to pick. It was strangely peaceful, even with Søren’s need to talk the whole way through.

On the fifth day of their journey, they noticed that the road was getting busier. By the early afternoon, they’d reached a moderately sized town. Egill had definitely been here before, but he and Einar tended to stay in smaller places. Neither of them were great with cities.

“Ah, the wonderful scent of the city!” Søren said, as they rode in. Egill was sure that wasn’t a compliment, but he’d been sneezing so much he couldn’t smell anything right then.

“We oughta stay a day, let the horses get some rest. Do some shoppin’,” he added, while pouting after neither Egill nor Torbjörn laughed.

“Good plan,” Torbjörn said, glancing questioningly at Egill, who nodded. With any luck, he’d be able to have a real bath after washing off in the icy river, and get some new soap to carry along for his clothes. He’d barely had this coat a month, and it deserved to look nice.

Søren seemed to know where he was going, leading Harald through busy streets to a little hotel tucked away behind a theater. He jumped off the horse, swinging one long leg over her head, and told them he’d get a room.

“A room?” Egill asked, but he was already gone. He patted Harald’s warm neck, mumbling, “You’re lucky you can’t understand him.”

Torbjörn got off his own horse, which didn’t seem to have a name, with a thump, and then he held a hand up to Egill, who took it without thinking about it, to get off Harald. He groaned when he landed on the paved ground, his whole body aching. He was used to walking, not riding. Torbjörn gently squeezed his fingers. Egill stared down at their joined hands as if they weren’t attached to his body. Torbjörn really had very large hands, dwarfing his own, and they were warm and callused…

“Mh—thanks!” Egill mumbled, and pulled his hand back.

“Got a place!” Søren announced as he came back outside. “Two nights, horses can go ‘round back, and they got a bath on offer.”

“Very good,” Torbjörn said.

It was indeed very good, though Egill nearly jumped out of his skin when someone knocked on the door during his bath and asked if he wanted assistance. His no was nearly a yell. He was a grown damn man, he could wash himself.

He shaved for the first time since he left Kai’s Bend—his beard didn’t grow quickly, and he felt uncomfortable doing it without a mirror. It was unfortunate that he had to put the same clothes back on. Maybe, he should get an extra shirt tomorrow. If he had enough money—hold on.

Walking back into the room Søren had gotten them, he asked, “Did you pay for me as well?”

Søren wasn’t there, just Torbjörn, looking out of the window in his shirtsleeves.

“’S one room,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Price is the same.”

“I should contribute. I’m the reason you’re going down south in the first place.”

Torbjörn turned to him fully, looking down at him. He’d actually gotten a slight tan from the spring sun, and his eyes seemed even bluer now. Egill was still just as pale, just like Søren.

“Alright,” he said. “’F that’s what you prefer.”

Egill nodded. He did not want to feel like a burden, even if he clearly was.

Søren, when he got back with meals from the pub down the street, tried to argue the point. The food, he claimed to have won off someone in a card game, so Egill would let that go, but Søren insisted that no payment was needed for the room.

At least until Torbjörn, just when Egill was about to start yelling at Søren that he wasn’t a fucking child, interrupted in an unusually sharp tone, saying, “Let the man pay you back, Søren.”

Søren opened his mouth, but shut it after looking at his cousin’s face.

“Fine, then. If it matters so much to you.”

It did.

Luckily, Søren was much less hard-headed about letting Egill draw a stave on his meal tray to make sure it was safe to eat. Egill was not taking any chances after what happened in Goldcrest with his brother. Torbjörn let him do it, too, though he was clearly not bothered.

It was also very good to sleep in an actual bed again.

The next day, though Egill was very sore from riding for almost a week, they ventured into the city to collect some supplies. Some tinned vegetables and dried meat for the road, and Egill got a new whetstone for his knife, pretty sure he’d forgotten his old one in Goldcrest. He considered buying a gun of some kind, but decided it wasn’t worth the money; he’d never been a good shot anyway. Instead, he spent it on a new shirt, plain white, and let himself be talked into purchasing a neckerchief he didn’t really need.

Søren got his hair cut and pomaded in the back of a pub, and Torbjörn bought a new straight razor and a bag for his horse.

While Søren tried to win more card games and maybe earn some money that way, Egill and Torbjörn sat in a quiet corner to eat dinner, and Egill couldn’t help but ask the question that had been plaguing his mind.

“Does your horse not have a name?”

Amusingly, Torbjörn tried to hide his face behind his mug of ale.

“What is it?”

“’M surprised Søren hasn’t told you yet.”

“Maybe he has, he’s very easy to ignore,” Egill confessed. He was pleased that Torbjörn huffed a laugh. “Is it more stupid than Harald?”

“Torbjörn Jr,” Torbjörn mumbled. Egill blinked, but he didn’t seem to be joking.

“Sorry, Torbjörn—”

“Friend of mine named him. ‘S the only name he’ll listen to now.” He sounded very long-suffering, and Egill laughed out loud.

“So that wasn’t Søren’s fault?” he asked.

“One of the men in Havenbridge we’re going t’see. Thought he was very funny.”

“Torbjörn Jr,” Egill repeated under his breath.

“Y’don’t want a horse ‘f your own?” Torbjörn asked, obviously attempting to change the topic.

“I can’t afford that. Besides, it’s… Not so bad, sharing.”

A hum, Egill guessed inquisitive.

“I don’t have to look at Søren’s face,” he added jokingly, and Torbjörn once again laughed softly. The sound was gentle, not matching his intimidating appearance at all, and it made Egill smile in turn, a pleased flush stealing over him.

Søren stayed behind, finishing his game, when Egill and Torbjörn returned to their hotel. In the light of a gas lamp, they looked at a map, seeking out the town they were in and following the river down to the sea. It was still a ways to go, but Egill found that he didn’t mind so much.

Now that he had left the mountains behind, the memory of Einar’s death already stung just a little less. It felt just a little less like he was going to suffocate under it, though he was sure it would always weigh on him.

Before Søren came back in, they decided it was time to sleep. Not wanting to get his new shirt sweaty, and also having access to quite nice covers to sleep under, Egill took it off to go to bed, his back turned to Torbjörn. He was so pale he nearly glowed in the sparse light; amused, Egill held up his bare arm and wondered if he could think of a stave that would actually make him glow. That might be useful. Torbjörn made a sudden noise, as if he was choking, but he was fine when Egill turned, climbing into his own bed with his back turned. Egill did the same.

“G’night,” Torbjörn said.

“Goodnight.” Egill bit his lip. “Torbjörn Sr.”

The exasperated groan from the other side of the room made him laugh. He didn’t even hear Søren return.

The next day, there was good news and there was bad news. The good news was that Søren had done well in his game, had won a good sum, and so insisted on stopping on the way out of town to buy extra coffee for the road. He walked alongside Harald while Egill sat atop the horse and tried not to laugh every time he saw Torbjörn Jr.

The bad news was that the weather had turned, and spring rain was now falling down. It wasn’t heavy, but it was cold, and Egill hadn’t yet thought to stitch staves for imperviousness and warmth into his new shirt. The ones in his other clothes were wearing out; Einar had done those. He was always better at them.

Søren and Torbjörn, of course, had not even that, and Torbjörn was squinting through glasses full of raindrops. Still, they went on, out of the city. For now, they would follow the railroad tracks, because the river meandered far west at this point while the tracks went almost straight south to Wildrose Valley, which was about halfway between Kai’s Bend and Havenbridge, and would take two or three days to reach.

At the end of a miserable day’s ride that even Søren’s coffee couldn’t make better, all three of them were grumpy, but they set up camp in a relatively sheltered dell. Though the foliage wasn’t thick yet, the trees still provided some cover. Torbjörn sat under a canvas and was trying to light a fire when Egill returned from setting up his tent and the magic staves to protect them. Søren was looking after the horses.

Predictably, Torbjörn was having a difficult time getting the wet wood to take a spark, grumbling under his breath as he struck match after match.

“Can I try?” Egill asked. With a disgruntled hum, Torbjörn handed him the matches. Sitting down on the log next to him, Egill set them down, instead pulling a piece of wood from the little pile of kindling and drawing his knife from his belt. He did this often when he traveled with his brother; he was better at fire.

Into the wet piece of wood, Egill carved a familiar stave. Torbjörn watched with obvious skepticism, and Egill couldn’t help but smile at him, excited despite himself to be able to prove him wrong. He held the wood in his left hand, folding his fingers around it, and took a deep, concentrated breath to push his power into the stave.

The wood crackled and burst into flame.

Torbjörn jolted, and his eyes widened behind his glasses, now reflecting the small flame in Egill’s hand. It didn’t hurt. Carefully, he used the flame to light the kindling, and he knew the rest of the wood would catch easily now.

“There you go,” he said to Torbjörn, who was silently looking at him, expression unreadable. His hair looked gold in the firelight. Egill wriggled nervously, clearing his throat. “Torbjörn?”

Suddenly, the man moved. He reached for Egill’s hand, cradling it gently with both of his own, holding his palm up with his warm thumbs swiping over the sensitive skin there.

“I’m—I’m alright,” Egill said through a shiver, meeting his eye.

“Didn’t think… Didn’t believe it was real.”

“You knew Einar, didn’t you?” Egill shivered once more when Torbjörn’s callused thumbs swept over the inside of his wrist. The touch was so soft.

“Søren knew Einar. I knew of him. What he told me seemed…”

“I don’t blame you. I don’t think I’d believe him either.”

Torbjörn quirked a small smile, glancing over at the fire.

“’S really incredible, Egill.” This time, he swept his long fingers over Egill’s palm, but he startled when he made a noise. He dropped his hand. “I’ll—cook.” He nudged his glasses up.

“Okay,” Egill breathed. He rubbed his own hand, which now felt cold. “Oh, uh, do you have any sewing supplies?”

Torbjörn told him they were in his saddlebags, so Egill reluctantly stood and went to see where Søren had left those.

With the fire crackling and all three of them sheltered underneath the tarp, the rain didn’t seem so bad. Søren dozed after dinner. Torbjörn watched, now with curiosity, while Egill stitched staves into his new shirt and channeled some power into the old ones.

“How’d you learn these?” the man asked, leaning close. His hands were now clasped around an empty bowl, and his deep voice rumbled in Einar’s ear.

“My father taught us some, but Einar and I, we both just know when something works.”

“Incredible,” Torbjörn said again.

“Should—shall I make one for you?”

“’F you want.”

Swallowing, Egill nodded, and Torbjörn took his large, dark blue coat off. It was a nice coat, heavy and still warmed when Egill pulled it over his legs. He doubted it needed the stave, as it was obviously well-made, but he set to stitching it into the back of the collar.

It was quick work, and he pushed a good amount of his power into it.

“It’ll wear off over time,” he told Torbjörn, handing the coat back to him. Yawning, he felt his head pound suddenly. That might have been a little too much power. “If it doesn’t work anymore, I can redo it.” He pressed a hand against his temple.

“Maybe—you alright?”

“Overdid it. I just need to sleep.”

Torbjörn had to steady him when he stood. Egill leaned on his shoulder, closing his eyes.

“Come.” Torbjörn stood too, and steered Egill to his tent with his hands on both shoulders, draping his coat over him.

“Torbjörn, I’m—I’m fine,” Egill protested. “There’s no need.”

On the other side of the fire, Søren jolted and made a confused noise.

“Rest,” Torbjörn said. And, when Egill did duck into his tent after being once more relieved of his coat, “Good. Thank you, Egill.”

“Yeah, of course,” he stuttered. “Of course.” He lay down and tried not to think about the unexpected softness of Torbjörn’s voice. He was kind. And despite being at most ten years older than him, he probably thought of Egill as a helpful child, a charge even. Egill wouldn’t be surprised if that was how he saw everyone.

But then again… His hand tingled with the memory of the man’s touch. Egill turned over on his bedroll, curled into a ball and willed himself to sleep.

Fortunately, though dawn was grey, the rain had ceased. They continued their journey. Wildrose Valley was close, already visible in the distance between the hills, but they agreed they had no business in the city and would travel around it.

“It ain’t much anyway,” Søren told Egill, gesturing at the smoke rising on the horizon. The road was fairly busy. “Unless you’re lackin’ in company, if y’know what I mean.”

“I’m not,” Egill said.

“No, I suppose y’ain’t.” Søren grinned over his shoulder, and Egill was startled into smiling back.

“No one could be, with you around,” Torbjörn put in from behind them on Torbjörn Jr, dryly. Egill bit his lip to keep from laughing at Søren’s pout.

They did take advantage of being close to the city to stop at a roadside bakery and pick up fresh bread, which smelled amazing. Torbjörn even helped the baker lift a barrel of grain and got an extra bit of honey cake for his trouble, carefully wrapped in wax paper for the road. His hum was definitely pleased. Egill was starting to learn to differentiate them.

And so, they had a little feast that evening, as Søren caught several fish—aided by a stave etched into his fishing pole—in a stream that fed into the river that ran through the city. Egill made his usual protections, walking around camp.

Torbjörn looked up when he sat down beside him, stretching his sore legs.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” Egill confirmed.

“Tired?”

“Torbjörn, I’m fine.”

A hum, this one indecipherable to Egill.

“Hey, Egill,” Søren said, coming over, “wanna play a game?”

He taught Egill how to cheat at card games, grinning with delight when he was tricked.

“Einar never let me play,” Egill told him absently.

“Lookin’ after you, I’d imagine.” Søren stilled for a moment. “Gonna be another week and a half down to Havenbridge.”

Egill nodded as he ran his fingers over the edge of his cards.

“You still plannin’ to leave?”

He looked up at Søren. Opened his mouth, then closed it and bit his lip. He played a card and Søren did too, a very bad one.

“Why else would I still be here?” Egill asked, staring at the cards. He put another down.

“I’d like to think we’ve grown on you, Egill.” His tone was joking, but somehow soft. “’Cause I do think you’ve grown on us. Companionship and all that.”

Egill glanced over at Torbjörn, who was running his finger over the collar of his coat, where he’d sewn the stave. Søren raised his dark eyebrows.

“It’s your turn,” Egill told him.

“It sure is.” He didn’t say anything more.

South of Wildrose Valley, the river split the landscape in two. On one side, there was the Lake Valley, which was a generous name for what was mostly swampland, where Einar had liked to tell Egill strange creatures dwelt, and on the other side was another rocky, mountainous area. The main road and the train tracks both veered west there, around the whole wet area, but, after another day of travel and a night spent under the stars, the three travelers stayed on the eastern bank, taking smaller roads up into the hills.

Although some rain fell, it wasn’t too bad, and they were making good headway when Torbjörn, ahead of Harald on the path, suddenly pulled Torbjörn Jr to a halt.

“What’s goin’ on?” Søren asked loudly, but Egill could hear what Torbjörn had evidently heard and shushed him. Someone was yelling for help, cutting off abruptly. Torbjörn squinted.

Another shrill shriek, and he took off, away from the path.

“Hey!” said Søren, and wheeled Harald around to follow him. They were forced to jump off the horse at a steep incline, both hurrying after Torbjörn and towards the harrowing sounds of a fight, which Søren now evidently heard too. He pulled out his pistol, cocking it. Egill drew his knife.

“Hey!” Torbjörn said in a booming voice that Egill had not yet heard from him but what he probably would have imagined him to sound like from his appearance. Like a roll of thunder, it was loud and intimidating. Søren tugged Egill behind a tree.

In a small clearing, there were two men and a young woman, younger than Egill, sat on the ground and looking terrified. Several other men were on the ground, evidently having been taken out in the fight, and random items were scattered about. When they saw Torbjörn, one of the men immediately pointed his pistol at the girl’s head. She cried out, and Søren swore under his breath.

“Stay here,” he told Egill, and began to scamper in her direction, hiding in the brush.

Stay here? Was he serious?

“You turn back now,” said the other man. He raised his own gun towards Torbjörn. “Nothin’ happened here, alright?”

The young woman sobbed silently, shoulders shaking beneath her fancy purple dress. Egill, who had his knife in his hand anyway, started carving a stave into the tree. The one he’d been working on in his journal.

“I won’t. You will,” said Torbjörn, steadily.

“Or what?”

As if on cue, Søren appeared behind the men, and he fired once at the one holding the gun on the girl, hitting his shoulder and knocking him to the mossy ground while he snatched her up with lightning-quick movements. They were both scrambling away when the uninjured man fired at them, disappearing between the trees.

The man who had fired at them whirled back to Torbjörn just as Torbjörn knocked his companion out with one slam of his massive fist. Egill’s hands were sweating, and he almost dropped his knife and leapt out, but Torbjörn was fast, getting close in one big step to grab the man’s arm, twisting it so that he dropped his gun.

“Ow! Ow, let—fuck!”

Torbjörn knocked him out just as unceremoniously, and glanced around the clearing with a deep frown. He whistled. From somewhere in the woods, a whistle sounded back. He kneeled down to pick up the fallen men’s weapons, glancing over at them continuously.

It all happened very quickly, and was perhaps not the first time the cousins had done this, but Egill still felt stupid and useless, could feel his power bubbling with the tension still. Søren emerged from the trees on the other side, his arm around the terrified girl’s shoulders, and Torbjörn started to ask him something, turning away. And so, Egill was the only one who noticed movement, as two separate bandits—the one who had fired at Søren and one who had already been knocked out—both clambered to their feet, both somehow still having weapons to draw.

He had no time to think. With a yell, he slammed his hand into the tree and channeled all the simmering power under his skin into it. He felt a thousand tiny pieces of bark rip off, could feel them fly into the clearing with the speed of a bullet, past Torbjörn without hitting him. They seemed to be sparking with light. Just as both men fired their guns, they were hit, knocked back with an incredible force as wood splintered and dug into their skin. They both fell over, shots going wide. One of them yelled, and Egill grimaced, looking at the lines of his new stave, reading sleep and heat both.

As the man went quiet, Egill sagged, power draining from him.

When he stumbled, he was surprised that Torbjörn caught him. Egill grabbed his coat, hanging on, burying his face in the heavy fabric as he shook. Søren was speaking, and so was the young woman, but Torbjörn just held him, strong hands on his back, now so gentle again. One curved around the back of his neck.

“Egill?” the man said, after what might have been an hour.

Egill blearily blinked at him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, though Egill could feel his voice vibrate in his chest.

“Is—did I kill them?” he asked, voice catching.

Torbjörn squeezed his neck and said, “Yes.”

“Fuck.”

“He would’ve killed me.” His tone wasn’t matter-of-fact, but he didn’t sound horrified. He repeated, “Thank you.”

Egill made a noise in the back of his throat and hid his face in Torbjörn’s coat again. He was exhausted. Staves weren’t meant for things like this. He’d just been so scared, so… Angry. After Einar, he couldn’t lose these new people in his life too.

“We’re taking the young lady home,” Torbjörn was telling him. “Come. Can you walk?”

Although he could probably easily carry Egill, he let him struggle down the hillside, only supporting him when he stumbled. They made it back down to the horses, and Egill saw that the girl was now on Harald, sitting aside behind Søren, arms wrapped around him. Egill didn’t protest when Torbjörn all but lifted him onto Torbjörn Jr, although he yelped halfheartedly when he realized that the man was swinging into the saddle behind him, his legs pressing into Egill’s and arms reaching around to hold the reins.

If he had been more awake, Egill might have objected—then again, he might not have—but now, he let himself lean back against Torbjörn’s broad chest and go limp.

He was nearly asleep when they reached the young woman’s residence. He only noticed this because they were immediately greeted by an irate blond man in a top-hat running out of the massive building.

“Erika!” he shouted. “What happened? Who are these people?”

Søren helped the girl—Erika, then—off Harald so she could explain. Torbjörn leaned forward, his hat knocking into Egill’s head, to ask if he was awake. He must have lost his own hat when he caused the tree to explode.

“Maybe,” he replied, turning his head a little. Torbjörn let go of his horse’s reins to touch his thigh, leaving his warm hand there for a moment. Fascinated, Egill stared down at the way his whole leg was covered, and touched the back of his hand. He squeezed slightly.

“Hey!” Søren called. He jerked his chin. The man and the girl both looked up at them, his arm wrapped protectively around her narrow shoulders. They looked alike in the same way that people used to say Egill and Einar did.

Torbjörn helped Egill off Torbjörn Jr, holding him steady.

“I can see you’re tired,” said the man. “You saved my sister’s life, and for that, I am more than grateful. You’re welcome to rest here for a few days.”

 Erika nodded, eyes wide. Torbjörn squeezed Egill’s shoulder, and Søren looked at them.

“Thank you. We’re happy to take you up on that generous offer, Baron Zwingli.”

It was very odd to hear Søren speak so formally, almost making Egill laugh. Where had he learned that?

“Good. Come, my staff will show you…”

Egill let himself be led by the shoulders, not paying attention until he was finally presented with a wonderfully large bed with fresh sheets. He sat down at the foot of it, and looked at Torbjörn as the man kneeled down in front of him. He tugged at his boots.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” Einar mumbled, or did his best to, even as he shuffled up on the bed and wriggled his toes.

Torbjörn hummed, and tucked him in. He fell asleep.

When Egill woke, he was disoriented, alone in an unfamiliar bedchamber. Sunlight streamed through high windows, and it was quiet. No snoring, no mumbling, no rustling of leaves or rushing of water. Rubbing his eyes, Egill sat up.

Oh, right, they had apparently rescued a Baron’s sister, and he had… He’d saved Torbjörn’s life.

Climbing out of the bed, Egill pulled his boots on, and went out.

The house was pleasantly warm, and richly decorated even in the hallways. A broad staircase led down into the foyer, and Egill could hear a familiar laugh echoing from outside the entrance doors. He hurried towards it.

Søren had evidently already made friends with the Baron’s staff and was helping a man carry a bucket somewhere, talking animatedly. When he saw Egill come outside, he stopped, put his bucket down, and rushed over. He clasped his shoulders, and Egill was startled to see a deep relief on his freckled face, etched among the laugh lines.

“Søren—”

“I am so glad you’re awake, y’scared the hell outta us, passin’ out for a whole day like that. How d’you feel? You hungry?”

Søren,” Egill tried again. “A whole day?”

“Just about. Torbjörn’s been—”

“Søren, I can’t—” the man in question was saying, frantically, bursting outside in an entirely un-Torbjörn-like manner— “find… Egill.” He trailed off when he saw Egill, who waved awkwardly.

“I’m okay,” he said, and then he was being pulled out of Søren’s grip and into Torbjörn’s arms, which wrapped all the way around him. He muffled a noise into the man’s vest, which smelled clean and was warm. Torbjörn’s breath ghosted over his temple, ruffling his messy hair.

Slowly, Egill wrapped his arms around the man in turn, pressing his hands against his back.

“I’m okay,” he repeated, although his voice got caught in his throat when Torbjörn turned his head so that his lips brushed his temple.

“Told you he’d be fine,” said Søren. “He’s a resilient one.”

Torbjörn hummed, rumbling in his chest. Egill categorized this one as relief, and then tried to extricate himself, suddenly very aware of what was happening and that Søren was right there.

As soon as he stepped back, Søren asked, “What about me, do I get a hug?”

“Søren,” said Torbjörn.

Biting his lip, Egill did turn to Søren, and hugged him too, yelping when he was pulled close. Søren was also warm, and he sighed deeply, which Egill also categorized as relief. It didn’t last nearly as long, though, and the man clasped his shoulder briefly when they parted.

“Torbjörn’ll take care of you. I got horses to feed.” He went back to his bucket.

“Hungry?” Torbjörn asked.

Egill was. Baron Zwingli had apparently given them free use of his house as long as they stayed out of his and his sister’s rooms, so Torbjörn took Egill to the kitchen to beg some food off the cook, who was more than happy to help the men who’d saved Erika’s life.

After that, Egill realized he was in desperate need of a bath, and that his clothes needed cleaning. Torbjörn went to tell someone to get warm water ready, and then led Egill to the correct room. The bath was steaming in the sunlight and smelled great.

“Let me take your clothes to get washed,” Torbjörn said, hovering in the doorway. Halfway through unbuttoning his vest, desperate to get in the tub, Egill turned to him, irritated despite himself.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he said once again. “I’m not a child.”

“I know,” Torbjörn said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

“Then why do you—I thought you—” Egill angrily threw his vest on the ground and started on his shirt.

“I want to,” Torbjörn said, with some force behind it.

“You want to?”

“Look after you. Want you to be—” He cut himself off when Egill removed his shirt, throwing it down as well and leaving him in his sleeveless undergarments.

“To be what?” Egill asked, stalking over, although he faltered a little when he realized Torbjörn was staring at his bare arms, where staves were inked into his skin, disappearing underneath his last layer. The man’s blue eyes were wide. “To be what?”

Torbjörn cleared his throat, licking his lips. “Happy,” he said. “I’ll… Wait outside. Hand me your clothes ‘round the door.”

Baffled, Egill did just that, and he got in the bath. It was perfect.

He didn’t consider what he would wear until his clothes were done being laundered, before there was a knock on the door.

“Egill?” It was Torbjörn. “’Ve brought you some of my clothes to wear, ‘f you want. Already clean.”

“Oh.” Egill felt himself flush, and not because of the water, which had cooled down quite a bit. He’d been here for a while. “Thank you.”

Torbjörn placed them just inside the door in a little pile, only his arm visible.

“I’ll be—”

“Wait,” Egill interrupted. “Wait, stay there.”

He quickly got out of the bath, dried off, and got into Torbjörn’s pants and shirt, both of which were, of course, comically large on him. The collar was slipping when he opened the door to let the man back in.

“’S not ideal.” There was some humor in Torbjörn’s voice, although his gaze lingered much too long on Egill’s collarbone.

“Better than nothing.”

“Maybe,” Torbjörn said, then cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. What did that mean?

“I need to shave,” Egill said.

“Hm. So do I.” Torbjörn had quite an impressive beard, after what must have been just two or three days without shaving. “Here.” He pulled out his own new razor, handing it to Egill.

“Can I… Add something?”

At Torbjörn’s nod, Egill laid the razor down on the edge of the washbasin and, using the sharp edge of a chipped piece of it, etched in a magic stave. His power felt good, back to normal.

“What does that one do?” Torbjörn asked.

“The stave?”

“Stave,” he echoed. “Yes.”

“It’s to prevent cuts.”

“Useful.”

Torbjörn watched him shave, hands clasped in front of him. The air was still warm.

Eventually, he said, “You saved my life, Egill.”

“Maybe. I…” He rinsed the razor in the basin. “Someone is dead, because of me.” His hand shook, but he didn’t cut himself. He still could, even with the stave, if it got worse.

“I know ‘s not an easy thing. Here.” Torbjörn took the razor from him, and Egill let him, turning away from the mirror. He used his left hand, just like Egill did, using his right to touch Egill’s face, tilting his head back.

A vulnerability swept over Egill, but he felt no urge to flee, not even to cover up. It was odd.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“I know.”

 Egill closed his eyes for a moment as Torbjörn finished his pass, leaning back against the washbasin.

“You’re… A very strong man,” Torbjörn mumbled after a moment, tilting Einar’s head with his warm hand and carefully running the razor over his jaw, his neck. “But if y’can’t be sometimes, ‘s no reason to think less ‘f yourself. I want to take care of you, Egill.”

Egill breathed a curse, voice catching when he tried to speak. Torbjörn shushed him. He ran a damp cloth over Egill’s skin, and Egill opened his eyes.

“The only person who’s taken care of me is Einar,” he said, meeting Torbjörn’s icy blue eyes, steady on his face. “I don’t… Want that.”

“You’re not my brother.”

Egill made a noise in the back of his throat and reached for the shaving soap and brush.

“Turn around.”

Without a word, Torbjörn did, leaning on the edge of the washbasin in a slouch so Egill could easily reach his face. It’d been a long time since Egill had shaved anyone else—and it’d only happened with Einar, and, once upon a time, his father, who’d mostly done it to teach him. He willed his hands to stop shaking, certain he’d cut Torbjörn despite his stave if he didn’t.

His shirt—Torbjörn’s shirt—slipped down his shoulder. He saw Torbjörn gaze at his tattooed skin.

“They’re for protection,” he said, as he brushed shaving soap over his beard. “And to make me stronger.”

Egill was now standing between the other man’s long legs. He put the brush down and picked up the razor. Torbjörn tilted his head back.

“Fuck,” Egill breathed. The trust. He knew that he would kill ten more men if he could protect Torbjörn that way, even if it knocked him unconscious for a month. He raised the razor.

Egill was careful shaving him, listening to his breath as it sped a little, running his fingers over newly revealed skin when he rinsed the razor. Torbjörn’s eyes closed, only opening again when Egill ran the damp cloth over his jaw and neck. They were dark, and Egill made another strangled noise. Trembling, he continued to run his fingers over Torbjörn’s skin, over his faint freckles and the lines around his mouth.

“I want.” He swallowed. “I want to take care of you, too.”

“You can,” Torbjörn promised. “Be happy to let you.”

“You’re not… My brother.” His breath caught when Torbjörn touched his bare shoulder, running his large hand to the side of his neck. He must be able to feel how Egill’s heart was hammering, maybe even to feel his power thrum under his skin.

“Don’t wanna be.”

“Fuck,” Egill said once more, his body strung tight.

And then, he tugged at Torbjörn’s face with both hands until he leaned over, and kissed him. He was immediately pulled closer, and wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, arching into him as their mouths met. It was not frantic but it was deep, and Egill could swear he felt a spark leap between them, something that felt like his powers surging into Torbjörn. The man groaned, tilting his head into the kiss. His thighs spread around Egill’s hips, strong arms wrapped around him and almost lifting him off the floor.

It felt both safe and infinitely thrilling, and Egill did not want to stop. He wanted to stay here until he couldn’t feel his lips, until he couldn’t feel where his powers flowed from him into Torbjörn.

When Torbjörn did eventually pull back, his pale face was flushed and his expression dazed, and Egill could only think yes. He did that. His lips tingled.

“Stay with us,” Torbjörn whispered. “With me.”

Egill didn’t even really have to think about it. He realized that he hadn’t thought of why they were going to Havenbridge in days now.

“I won’t go into the mountains,” he said. Never again.

“I won’t make you.”

“You’re…” Egill shuffled, looking down at Torbjörn’s chest, hidden beneath that nice blue vest. “You’re a good man.”

“Hope so.” His fingers swept underneath Egill’s shirt, seemingly absentmindedly; he widened his eyes when Egill softly gasped.

“But if you don’t want to be for a while…”

Blue eyes swept over his exposed collarbones, and Torbjörn’s whole hand pressed underneath Egill’s shirt.

“I’d be happy to help.”

Torbjörn kissed him again, hungrily, Egill pressing him against the edge of the washbasin, the whole length of their chests touching.

“Hey! You folks gettin’ busy in there?” yelled Søren, outside the washroom door.

“Go away!” Egill shouted back, and Torbjörn seemed to choke, face going even redder.

“Just sayin’. We’re invited for dinner with the Baron, now you’re awake. Be presentable in a half an hour.”

Egill looked down at his messy, too-large shirt, Torbjörn’s hand rucking it up.

“Uh.”

“Let me, hm.” Torbjörn cleared his throat. “Let me go check with the launderer.”

Before he left, he ducked down and kissed Egill again, and Egill saw him smile as he walked away.

Søren, at dinner, seemed very amused. He and Torbjörn also seemed to be very well-versed in etiquette, which Egill wondered at. There was obviously a lot he didn’t yet know about the cousins’ history, but he would have time to learn, now.

As they turned in for the night, he debated going into Torbjörn’s room, but he needn’t have bothered; there was, after about fifteen minutes, a knock at his door.

“’S me.”

“Come in.”

Torbjörn was just in his undergarments, and Egill’s mouth went dry as he finally got the chance to openly gaze at the impressive figure the man cut in the low light. He made room for him on the bed, still on top of the covers, but Torbjörn didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned over to kiss Egill, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Egill gripped his short hair, arching up.

“Gonna take care of you,” Torbjörn rumbled against his lips.

“Oh—please.”

They ended up with Torbjörn sitting against the headboard, Egill kneeling over his impressive thighs. They had both removed their shirts but nothing more. There was no need to hurry, and there was enough to explore already, just like this. Torbjörn had, for example, kissed Egill’s neck, touched his chest with careful fingers, making his heart skip multiple beats.

“D’you do these yourself?” he was asking now, tracing the slightly raised skin of the tattooed stave that protected Egill from small fires.

“Einar. I don’t know how, or I’d—I’d…” He traced invisible lines into Torbjörn’s skin. “You and Søren both.”

He hummed, consideringly. “Does the person who does them have to be… Like you?”

“No, my father’s were made by my mother.”

“The man in Havenbridge, with the boat. He does tattoos.”

“The man who named your horse Torbjörn Jr?” Egill laughed, and was quite pleased to be pulled into a kiss to be stopped. He could get used to that.

The door burst open.

“Hey, Egill—Jesus Christ, I should’ve knocked!” Søren yelped.

“Søren!” Torbjörn boomed, certainly loud enough to wake the whole household, but for some reason, Egill could only continue laughing. He hid his face in his hands, shaking.

Torbjörn huffed.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked Søren.

“It was… Quiet. I can go.”

Egill looked at Søren, who clasped the back of his neck, and at Torbjörn, who looked unimpressed but somehow fond.

“You can stay,” he said, climbing off Torbjörn’s legs to sit next to him instead.

“Okay!” Coming closer, Søren widened his eyes when he looked at Egill. “Wow, that’s some ink! Is that… Magic?”

Egill nodded.

“Wow,” he repeated. Søren was also in his undergarments, and sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed. His hair was in disarray. “You comin’ along with us now?”

“He is,” Torbjörn confirmed, the fondness now creeping into his voice. Egill ducked his head, smiling down at his hands in his lap.

“Glad to hear it. Not goin’ down to Havenbridge anymore, then?”

“No, we are,” Torbjörn said.

“Oh?”

Egill leaned into his side, touching a hand to his chest.

Søren can coax Einar out of any mood, with his smile undeterred by the man’s often dark countenance. He throws an arm around his shoulders, grins against his temple while he tugs Torbjörn over with his other hand, fisted in his coat.

“I don’t think they know how annoying he is,” Einar said, and then seemed to choke on the food he hadn’t eaten. “Was.”

Søren the Axe-wielder, they were calling him. The warrior who finally conquered the powerful entity most people were afraid to name. It was a title he would’ve loved, Torbjörn thought. Although he probably wouldn’t have been a fan of the way his axe was now being passed around like some sort of relic, by people that weren’t him or either of them.

“Very annoying,” Torbjörn agreed, his voice scratchy with disuse. “Never should’ve let him go out in the first place.”

He’s so earnest, so ready to lay down his life for them from the moment they meet, and seems confused that they’d do the same. Torbjörn worries, sometimes, that they aren’t good for him, that they’ll drag him down with their silences. But he doesn’t know how to tell Søren that, so he tries to pour his appreciation into the wood he carves, making new beads for his wild hair or a new handle for his axe, talismans for both him and Einar. Just as Einar learns protective spells to lay on the wood and weaves tales by firesides across the realm to enchant both of them. It’s always the three of them.

“He can be so stubborn,” Einar continued, stabbing his knife into a piece of meat. He didn’t correct his tense this time, and neither did Torbjörn, who just nodded, reaching for his arm. He really should eat; it had been a long battle. Einar looked over at him, dark blue eyes edged with the wild, iridescent purple of his magic.

Or, maybe, it was just emotion this time. If it was, Torbjörn had not the skill to say. Søren would have known.

Relieved and adrenalin-filled after a mighty battle, Torbjörn tangles his hands in Søren’s ever-unruly hair while the man recounts the whole thing, and Einar tiredly crafts healing potions. Søren never shuts his mouth, and in moments like these, it’s a relief to both of them, to know he’s still there. The way he lets Torbjörn mend his armor and Einar heal his wounds means he’s relieved, too.

Eventually, they managed to eat some food, quietly. Ignored by the revelers in the tavern. Søren was still soaking up the attention that neither of them wanted, even though he was no longer here.

Einar kept cutting three pieces.

Sighing, Torbjörn continued to touch his arm, reminding both of them where they were. Who they were—even if he wasn’t entirely sure of what that was, now.

When the food was gone at long last, Einar laid his slender hand over where Torbjörn’s rested on his forearm. They sat still.

He never stops moving if they don’t slow him down now and then. Søren flies through life with little regard for his surroundings. He even wriggles and talks in his sleep. Einar keeps a parchment to note the strangest things he says, and Søren is always amused to find out. Sometimes, when all three of them can sleep at once, without the need for a watch, he ends up between Torbjörn and Einar, and is still for once. And then, of course, he tells Torbjörn that he snores much too loud.

The tavern started emptying; the townsfolk were exhausted from the long day and full of food and drink. They left Søren’s axe, stained with tar-like blood, behind. Torbjörn wasn’t sure what they intended to do with it, so he stood up from his bench, marched over, and took it, glaring at the few people still hanging around. They did know who he was despite Søren getting all the fame, and let him.

Of course, Torbjörn used a sword most of the time, but perhaps he could take up this weapon as a tribute to Søren. He ran his fingers over the runes he had carved into the handle, and saw them light up with a familiar purple glow as he got back.

Standing, Einar also touched the axe. A frisson of energy ran through both of them. Einar took a deep breath, the light flaring with it.

“I can feel him,” he breathed.

An infectious grin, hands rough from gripping an axe, but ever so gentle in their touch. Hair burnished copper in the sun, a thousand freckles bunching as Søren laughs.

“’S not right,” Torbjörn said.

“It’s not,” Einar agreed.

“Supposed to be three of us.”

Their hands touched over the glowing runes, and Torbjörn could almost hear Søren’s exasperated exclamation of, ‘Just say what you mean for once, you guys! By the gods, you’d think words cost gold!’

They finally speak their unspoken pact the day before the final battle: it’s the three of them against everything else. Einar weaves a spell between them, connecting them all, and he drapes over both of them in a fitful sleep, his visions darker than ever. Torbjörn is still a knight at heart, even if he’s been caught up with these strange men for years, and his sleep is watchful. Søren is the only one who sleeps well, content in the knowledge that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be, who he’s supposed to be.

“He’s beyond this realm,” Einar said slowly, in the same sort of voice with which he issued prophecies or chanted spells—something deep and otherworldly that settled under Torbjörn’s skin. “But I don’t believe he’s beyond our reach.”

The runes flared as if in agreement, as if Søren was watching and he was grinning triumphantly, saying, ‘I knew you guys would figure it out!’

And even if he wasn’t, Torbjörn knew they would find him, would move mountains and challenge the gods themselves if they had to.

Nadzeya can hear her own heartbeat, thundering in her ears. It’s surely not healthy for it to be that fast.

“Manon?” she whispers. Her lips feel cold. Her voice wavers. It never wavers.

“I’m sorry, Nadzeya,” Manon replies. She does not sound sorry, and the smile twists further.

“What is this?” Why is Nadzeya so cold when her insides feel like they are burning? More importantly, why is Manon not cold?

“This is…” Manon reaches for her, and her fingers are scorching hot against Nadzeya’s cheek. “The end.”

“Why?” It’s all she can think to ask, while Manon curves her hot fingers around the back of her neck. Nadzeya tries to grasp her arm, but her fingers are quickly going numb, her body heavy. She accidentally scratches Manon’s pale skin. In the low, flickering light of the single lightbulb illuminating the basement, she seems almost statuesque, with her curled hair impeccable as ever, tucked into her headband. Her pearl earrings glisten like tears, but her eyes are dry.

“It’s too much, Nadzeya. It hurts too much.”

That is why they are here. Why they are both here. They were supposed to be together. She’s not supposed to be smiling.

Slowly, Manon lowers Nadzeya to the couch as her body grows heavier and heavier with each breath. Each shuddering breath. It’s so cold. Nadzeya keeps trying to grab her, trying to pull her close like she’s supposed to be. All this time they’ve been together, Manon has been warm, but not like this. Not this overwhelming heat. This sharp, malicious blaze of her smile. It hurts too much? What does that mean?

To Nadzeya, love has always hurt, and she thought it was that way for everyone for a long time. But for Manon, she has learned, it is soft. Soothing. No hidden truths, no twisted words. Until now. Because now, Nadzeya realizes as her eyes fight to stay open, she knows that it can hurt, and she can’t take it.

“I will be fine,” Manon says, cupping Nadzeya’s cheek. “I’ve learned my lesson this time.”

This time? Nadzeya tries to speak, tries to ask if there have been others who were stupid enough to walk into this obvious web of lies as she did, but her throat is closing up. She can’t feel her legs anymore. She can’t feel anything anymore, except for the white-hot heat of Manon’s betrayal, captured in that smile. Those lovely red lips that drew her in with a bright grin across a crowded dance floor, now smiling as she takes her last breaths. The sparkling eyes that winked at her are now watching her struggle dispassionately. Was this always how it was going to end, or has Manon deluded herself into believing that she’s looking for actual love? Will she, one day, find a woman who’s good enough for her? Who is good enough for the world to see?

“Why?” Nadzeya manages to rasp, again. She gets no reply other than a gentle shushing, like she’s just trying to get to sleep after a bad dream. She’s told Manon about her nightmares, about the fears her youth instilled in her. They’ve spent hours on the phone in the middle of the night, talking about nothing, or lying in bed, hidden from the world. But what does Nadzeya really know about Manon? How much does she actually understand about her life, about her past? Why has it never seemed important until now?

None of her questions will get answers, now. And maybe that’s all there is to Manon’s smile; the knowledge that her secrets are safe. That no one will ever really know her, or know about Nadzeya. That people will just see a lovely young woman, unattached and bright, dancing and smiling through life.

Nadzeya thought she was lonely, before she met Manon, but she sees with startling clarity that no one will ever be as lonely as her. That blazing smile is proof of that. She’ll never find what she wants. She can’t.

With her final breath, Nadzeya twists her own lips into a sharp smile to mirror Manon’s. She’ll not let her have the satisfaction of the last laugh.

The last thing she sees is Manon’s mouth curling down, and then everything is cold.