wilde knight

The mumbling beside him told him what had woken him.

Against his side, Ilya’s warm arm twitched, the sensation of his skin on Shane’s giving him immediate goosebumps. He wasn’t sure how long he’d continue to always react to him this way, but two years out from their marriage Shane was happy to see it still happened every time they brushed against each other.

Shane didn’t like touch, but he always craved Ilya’s.

In the quiet morning, there was only the sound of Ilya’s deep breathing. Shane stole the opportunity to look at him in the dim light. Over a decade later, he still thought he was the most handsome man he might have ever seen—especially when he slept.

For one, he wasn’t running his mouth. But the way his lips fell open just slightly with sleep left him with a boyish look that he so infrequently held awake. It was helped by the tousled curls that fell softly over his forehead. 

Shane knew it was a privilege to see him this way—the way so few others had ever gotten to. His heart thumped pathetically and he smiled, almost hearing Ilya’s voice in his head. 

“You are such a romantic for me, Hollander, yes?” 

How bad was it that, now, he could predict the teasing that his husband would lob on him down to the inflection, even when he wasn’t conscious.

Shane took another look, and decided against waking Ilya. He’d been up late—not even back in bed before Shane had fallen asleep last night—working on something in the garage. He wouldn’t let him see it, so Shane was already assuming he’d bought something for their upcoming anniversary despite their no gifts agreement. Either that, or he was preparing to purchase another dog for them.

As though she’d heard his thoughts, the tip-tap of Anya’s feet came across the wood floors into the room, muting once they hit the carpet and jumped onto Shane’s legs. He pet her, scratching behind the ears as she settled between them, plopping her chin down onto her paws. He’d seen the way Ilya had been browsing pet adoption sites lately, though he’d kept quiet. He’d found over the years that what Ilya wanted most was companionship. Plus, Shane loved Anya. He wouldn’t mind having a buddy for her around, another personality in the house for them to love.

He’d just decided to get up and start breakfast—maybe french toast for Ilya—when he heard the murmuring again. Beside him, Ilya’s legs shifted restlessly again. Then, Shane heard it.

“Мама.” Ilya’s voice was quiet, but strained. He didn’t open his eyes.

Ilya was having another nightmare.

Shane shifted, torn between wanting to wake him to save him from the heartbreak he knew would be incoming and the grief that would occur if he pulled him from the dreams too early.

“Пойдем со мной. Я хочу, чтобы ты с ним познакомился.”

Come with me. I want you to meet him.

Shane’s Russian was almost passable now, though it had taken a while to get there. When they’d officially moved in together and Shane had first noticed Ilya having nightmares, he’d written some of the phrases down, the sadness so heavy in his chest as he’d badly translated the scribbled words the next day. 

Now, there was no need. It didn’t make hearing the words any less painful. Without the added barrier of needing to write them down and translate them later, the words pierced him in real time, each one harder to hear than the last.

Ilya stirred again, his brow furrowing, face sad somehow even with eyes closed.

“Как бы мне хотелось, чтобы ты был здесь.”

I wish you were here. 

Shane lay back down, his arm coming softly across Ilya’s stomach, holding him without waking him. His husband had been a deep sleeper since they’d first shared a bed, but Shane thought the touch, on some level, would let him know he wasn’t alone.

“Не уходи. Пожалуйста, мама.”

Don't go. Please, mama.

The words were smooth, falling like poetry from Ilya’s lips, but each one tore a hole through Shane. He knew that Ilya would always grieve his mother, knew that there was no fixing this. Shane’s own mom went out of her way to spend time with Ilya, even one-on-one, and Ilya had told him more than once how much it meant to him. But there was no filling the chasm that had been left behind when Irina had died. 

Ilya’s body twitched a bit, writhing as though trying to fight some inescapable pain before deflating onto the bed again, the sadness so clear in his posture even laying down. Anya lifted her head to look, concern painted in her eyes too. Shane reached his other hand down to lay on her back. To show he had them both. That he could comfort them both, even if he couldn’t fix it.

“Прости, мама. Прости, я не могу вернуться домой.”

I'm sorry Mama. I'm sorry, I can't come home.

It was the same nightmare every time. He’d get to see his mother in his dreams, but the cost was that he always woke knowing he never would again. That she’d never meet Shane. That he could never visit her grave, never be close to her again.

Shane had never forgotten the fight he and Ilya had before they’d come out publicly.

“I already chose you, Hollander.” 

Shane had thought he meant hockey, meant moving. But it was so much more than that. He’d given up everything to be with Shane, including the ability to ever go back to Moscow when they came out.

He’d never gotten to even say goodbye since the news broke so abruptly.

Shane closed his eyes and tucked his nose against Ilya’s shoulder, breathing him in. The guilt and shame of that year and Shane not understanding what Ilya was going through still ate at him like acid when he thought about it, even though they’d long since talked about it and moved on. Even though things were okay now.

But the truth was that Ilya had always given more, even from the start. Even when it hadn’t seemed that way. 

Ilya didn’t miss Moscow, and Shane knew that. But his mother was there. He’d never visit her again, never set foot on Russian soil. Shane’s eyes burned. Beneath him, Ilya’s breathing had calmed, his heartbeat back to baseline. Anya’s head rested on Ilya’s shin, and his face had smoothed back to the peace of sleep.

Ilya had given everything up for this, and Shane loved him so much sometimes that it hurt.

As he lay close, the sun beginning to rise in earnest and splashing the walls and the trees beyond the window with color, an idea began to form in Shane’s mind.

Did he have time? He could certainly find the resources. He didn’t think it would be overstepping, but Shane didn’t always know for sure.

Pieces flew together as he lay on Ilya’s chest, each step forming in his mind like puzzle pieces that had just been waiting to build something. Waiting for Shane to think of it.

He couldn't give Ilya his mother back, but perhaps he could give Ilya the comfort he'd always given Shane. 

He slipped quietly and slowly out from beneath the covers, grabbing his phone from the nightstand and padding into the kitchen.

His mom would be awake by now, and she always knew how to help. He swiped open her messages. 

Mom, I have an idea. Are you up?

+++

Ilya

Ilya watched as the trees blurred outside the window of the car.

“It’s been nice weather so far this summer, yeah?” David asked, pulling Ilya’s attention off the reflections on the lake’s surface as they passed.

“Yeah, it’s good. Has been hotter this year than I remember.” It was true. Though he had mostly adjusted to summers in Canada, it was still hotter than he was used to. The air was always heavier, and when he would run, he would sweat buckets.

David nodded, turning down the street and away from the shimmering lake. “Hey, thanks for helping me out today. I know Shane and Yuna had that…thing.”

David was almost as bad at lying as Shane was. Still, Ilya had enjoyed their day.

“Thank you for inviting me. I enjoyed the lunch.” David had texted early this morning, asking if Ilya might help him pick up some lumber and, in exchange, David would treat him to lunch. They’d gone to Mary Brown’s Chicken—David’s choice, but not really, since Ilya knew David knew it was his favorite.

Ilya smiled to himself. He had never really known family like this—had never had a father figure who even pretended to care for him past what he could gain in terms of pride or name. It was his reminder to never take days like today for granted.

Even if he had a suspicion that he was being lied to.

“I had great time, David. Thank you for the lunch.”

As they turned back down the final street to the cottage, the lake came back into sight, sun streaming across the lapping surface and sending the reflections up against the dark pines around it. 

“Nah, don’t mention it. I know how much you like that place.” He patted the steering wheel once for good measure. “And I always appreciate the company. And the help.” He pointed up to the truck bed where they’d put in the lumber. “Body’s not quite what it used to be, so I’ll take all the help I can get.”

Ilya nodded, testing the waters as they pulled up to the cottage, noting Shane’s car still in the driveway as it had been all morning. “Where did Yuna say the PR event was today?”

David’s cheeks tinged pink, his throat clearing, and Ilya held back a grin. David was keeping secrets for his son, Ilya just wasn’t sure what they were yet. 

“I, ah, I can’t be certain. Yuna just said that they’d be back this afternoon. She’s the one who suggested I ask you for help!” His enthusiasm was a little too much, and Ilya decided to show him mercy rather than keep prying. Shane’s secrets would come out in due time. 

“Well, more fried chicken for us, ah?” 

David nodded, looking relieved as they parked. 

“You are sure you do not need me to help you unload at the house?” Yuna and David lived just a few minutes further down the road—the cabin that Shane had gone to growing up only a short drive up the lakeside.

“Nah, I’ve got it from here. Just that loading and unloading and making it all the way over the store that gets me.” 

Ilya nodded again, pulling the door to the truck open and climbing out. Before going up the steps, he turned back. “Thanks again, David. Was good day.” 

David smiled back, patting the old metal frame of the driver’s side window twice before pulling out of the gravel drive. As Ilya climbed the stairs to their porch, he took out his phone to Google whatever PR event Shane had today. He was entirely unsurprised to find nothing on the public schedule.

“You are a scoundrel, Hollander,” he laughed, sliding his key into the lock and hearing Anya’s skittering footsteps on the wood floors inside to greet him. She wound between his legs as he pushed into the house and secured the door behind him.

“Да, да. Привет, Любимая,” he cooed as she barked once, lifting her head so he’d pet her. She didn’t need to ask twice. Ilya had never had pets growing up, had never known how unconditionally he might love an animal. Every day now, it was a great feat to not fill his house with all the puppies he saw on the online ads who did not have homes.

His phone chimed in his pocket, and Ilya smiled. It was the special one he saved only for Shane, so he always knew when it was him.

You home? 

Ilya nearly laughed at Shane’s clipped message. Even through a text, he could practically feel the tension in Shane’s body, which could mean only one thing: Shane had caved and bought an anniversary gift for him.

The two had mutually decided to not get each other any gifts, despite it being their two year anniversary. They were planning to spend a week in Prince Edward Island, and had agreed that would be plenty. Now, as Ilya typed his confirmation back, he felt less bad about the massive new workout machine he’d bought for Shane and been hiding in the garage for weeks. Additionally, the specially curated eight-course, macro-friendly meal he’d reserved for them on the island seemed like a much better idea.

Yes. I am at home. Why are you not at home? He texted back.

“Tricky, tricky, Hollander,” he whispered, closing his phone and taking Anya out to the backyard. He stood on the porch while she ran around, the herding ball he’d bought her last month bouncing around the yard while she chased it. Behind her, the light sparkled over the lake and Ilya paused to take it in. He would never tire of this view, of this life. He was so glad they spent the off-season here—so fortunate that he was able to call this place his home. So fortunate…in so many ways that he almost couldn’t believe it sometimes.

When he remembered how life felt, even just a few years ago, it seemed impossible to him. Like he was looking at the life of someone else. Things weren’t perfect—no one’s life was—but when he measured the happiness he felt now, he knew without a doubt it was the most at peace he’d ever been. The most loved.

He sat and stretched out in the Adirondack chair, his spine popping as he did. It was the off season, but there would be another soon. How much longer would he do this? What else would he even do if he didn’t do this? Hockey was all he’d known for so much of his life, and though part of him thought with how much he loved summers, that he would love a downshift. Another part of him wondered what his worth might be outside of the sport.

He stopped himself. That was a negative generalization. Galina had taught him to catch those and work through the logic of them. Shane did not love him for his hockey. They had met because of hockey. It was a gift, but not his only one.

He breathed deep, the summer air filled with pine. 

Perhaps there was a bigger adventure coming next. Perhaps, he and Shane would continue the talk they kept halfway bringing up then skirting around about having children. Both of them wanted it—both of them were unsure. 

He’d never really considered before what he’d be like as a parent, and he had no clue if he would be any good. But Ilya thought he was very good at loving Shane, and very good at loving Anya. He thought he could be very good at loving someone else, too. 

He had no real experience with children, other than Hayden and Jackie’s, who he adored, though he’d never admit it. Whenever they left the house, a disaster in their wake, Ilya had started to find he missed the sound, the house full of laughter and loud joy. That, he thought, he could do. Even if his own house had never ever felt that way. 

Any climbed the steps of the porch, nudging him with her nose to go back in. 

“Alright, alright. Пришло время ужина. Time for dinner.”

She recognized the word dinner, both in Russian and in English, and hustled through the door. His phone chimed again just as he poured her food, and Shane’s text lit up the screen.

I’ll be back soon. From the PR event.

“Such a horrendous liar,” Ilya laughed, rolling his eyes but sending a thumbs up in return with the message See you soon. Ilya’s interest was piqued. 

Shane’s surprises were never really surprises, but they were always enough to warm what Ilya had once thought would always be an icy space where a heart belonged. He was a horrible liar, but his gift giving skills were something Ilya would always be both in awe of and grateful for.

It was only a few more minutes before Ilya heard the front door open, Anya’s routine repeating as she came to greet Shane as she had Ilya. He hadn’t needed to wait, because he’d watched on the Ring camera as Shane had, oddly enough, emerged from the woods.

“Hey,” Shane said breathlessly as Ilya took him in. Even in his loose shorts and foundation tee, he thought he was stunning. He wanted to put his hands on him.

“How was your PR event in the forest?” he asked, grinning. Shane stammered, red highlighted his freckled cheekbones.

God, but he loved him. He didn’t give him time to dig himself a deeper hole, simply coming forward and kissing him instead. Every kiss still felt electric, like they were back in 2014, spending months apart between seeing each other, even though they’d been in each other's arms this morning.

“Listen, I know our anniversary isn't for a week, and we said no gifts, but I may have—”

“You don't say,” Ilya deadpanned. Shane rolled his eyes, huffing.

“Okay, well come on.” He pulled back, walking to the back door and holding it open for Ilya.

“My gift is in the woods? Is it your PR event?” Shane shoved him playfully as the door shut behind them, leaving the two to walk across the yard and down to the path near the woods where they sometimes did morning runs together.

“You will finally kill me, Hollander?” he asked, knowing the grammar wasn’t quite right, but letting the question hang anyway. His English wasn’t always perfect, but Shane had made it a point to tell him how much he loved Ilya’s accented English over and over. If he’d done it to make Ilya feel better, he’d succeeded.

Shane laughed, shaking his head as he took Ilya’s hand and led him further down the path. All this land that bordered this section of the lake was theirs, almost all the way up to the turn in the road. When Shane had purchased it years ago, he’d wanted privacy, and that privacy had made such a difference in the days before they were out. This place had always felt like a sanctuary to Ilya, even when things were hard, and he felt that peace every time he ran on these wooded paths.

He and Shane bumped together as they walked, their bodies finding each other as often as they could. One bump turned into another, both picking up the pace and walking faster until Ilya took off, shoving Shane lightly before running ahead on the path.

“It’s not—it’s not a race, Ilya!” But there was laughter in his voice. They were like this often, the spark of competition never really dying between them. And Ilya loved how evenly matched they were. Ilya would always win, of course, but Shane always gave him a close run.

Today, Shane was on his heels—no complaints or banter, almost like he seemed happy to let Ilya lead. Was this part of his gift?

They were approaching the familiar clearing that came right before the path split, one direction to the road and the other to the water. But Ilya didn’t have time to decide which path to take, because today, the clearing held something different. He stopped so hard the dirt flew up in front of him, Shane colliding with his back at the abruptness, hands warm on his skin.

Today, there was something in the familiar clearing that wasn’t there before. He’d run this path a thousand times, but never—never had he…

Ilya stepped forward slowly, then again. His body leaned in as though it was functioning on its own. 

A small stone, a burst of flowers, the sun shining down and framing it perfectly.

His breath caught so violently at the recognition that he almost choked.

“What is this?” His voice was a cracked whisper, the emotion a fist around his throat.

He stepped closer, closer again, bending down to touch the name carved into marble. It was so familiar. It had been so long.

“Shane.” The name was a sob, his own voice nearly unrecognizable. It was exactly the same. Exactly. The name, the carvings, the stone itself. The chip in the upper corner. It had devastated Ilya when he’d seen it the first time, his finger running over it over and over again as though he could fix it with touch alone.

But here, now, it was familiar. It was the only piece of Russia he ever truly missed.

This headstone was in much better condition, covered in bright flowers that he would never have found in Moscow. They were bright, the way she deserved, and Ilya could suddenly feel the tears on his face. 

Ирина Розанова

Мать. Жена. Любимая.

“How?” He was crying in earnest now—he didn’t care. Shane had seen him cry plenty, the only one who he ever really let see him this way. 

“I called in a few favors. Vanya was home for the off season. Moscow wasn’t very far from him, and he took a day trip. I asked if he’d take a lot of pictures, and he did.”

Fuck, Vanya. He was always so kind. He understood what Russia was like, and they’d become fast friends because of it. He didn’t ask much about his summers, and Vanya didn’t offer. He had to know how strange the distance felt—he knew the situation—knew how Russia treated people like Ilya and Shane.

“I took the pictures and had a replica made. I don’t know how close it looks...”

How could Ilya possibly explain to him that it looked so much like it that it was the closest he’d felt to his mother since she died. That having her here, in this place that felt like peace, at the happiest he’d ever been in his life, was a gift like he had never experienced.

“Obviously, it isn't the same as having her here, but I thought you might find some comfort—” But Ilya was launching into Shane, their bodies colliding as he held him like he might disappear. Held him like he’d just given him something he thought he’d never have again. He felt Shane’s arms soften around him, holding him back tightly.

“You are everything. Everything, Shane, do you hear me?” He pulled back just enough to kiss him, his cooling tears smearing over freckles. Shane pressed his thumbs gently beneath Ilya’s eyes, brushing carefully.

“I’m sorry if this is overstepping—”

“Is not overstepping.” He kissed Shane on the cheek, pressing it a beat longer than normal, before turning back to the stone, crouching slowly, reverently, and reaching back out to touch it again. It felt unreal as he traced the letters, like she could be here.

“She would like this.” He finally found the words, though they, too caught in his throat. “She loved the forest. Loved the quiet places.” He laughed, but it shook. “She would love you, too.”

It wasn’t the first time he had told Shane that, but Ilya truly believed it. Irina had been a soft but strong force, quiet but fierce. He thought she would recognize that in Shane, be impressed with his competitive nature and ferocious loyalty.

“You think so?”

“She would say you are too thin, probably,” Ilya responded as he felt Shane come to sit on the ground at his side. “She was the first person to really care about me. To show me what love was supposed to look like.” 

Ilya knew how hard she must have tried to hang on.

“She sounds like she was a smart, wonderful woman.”

“She was,” Ilya said fondly. Then, more softly, “She would be so happy I am loved.”

Shane wordlessly sank against him, shoulder to shoulder, knees touching. Above them, a cool breeze moved through the trees, the lake lapping at the shore just beyond where they sat. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the grief inside Ilya didn’t feel as heavy. It felt almost like it had finally been given its own place to sit, to take it from his shoulders.

Ilya leaned his head against Shane’s, closing his eyes and breathing in. He imagined coming here, leaving flowers, bringing Anya. He had a flash of, maybe one day, explaining to someone small and curious who Irina Rozanova had been, why she mattered so much. The thought brought the stinging tears back to his eyes.

When they finally stood, Ilya brushed his fingers over the chip in the stone one more time before stepping back. It was perfect.

“Thank you,” Ilya said, steady now. The words still weren’t enough, but they were true. “This means more than you could ever know.”

Shane squeezed his hand.

“Even if you broke our no-gifts rule,” Ilya laughed.

“You’re telling me that the giant structure badly covered by a blanket in our garage right now isn’t doing that?” He tugged Ilya back toward the house. The walk back was slower, both of them quiet, hands entwined.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the past year, and how I made the decision to finally read that little red book about faeries after years of resistance. But I think everything fell into place when it was supposed to.

In the last 12 months, I’ve read 31 books (half of that being SJM’s, and that’s not counting re-reads/re-listens) which was unfathomable to me when I first picked ACOTAR up.

Back in the spring, I revived my tumblr and AO3 for the first time in well over a decade only to discover a whole new world of devoted fans who (mostly) loved a lot of what I loved. Fandom at 29 is not the same as fandom at 14, and so much about that culture has changed, but the broad strokes remain the same, and the core of which has always been and still is — community.

When I first posted TSIMH, it was after word vomiting into the first three chapters into a google doc on my phone while on holiday at my grandma’s house because I couldn’t keep it in. That led me to read fic after fic after fic, and discover some of the kindest, most talented people and writers and artists.

Since then I have published almost 150k words of my own work (and drafted around the same 😅), easily read hundreds of thousands of other people’s brilliant words. And have been endlessly inspired by every single one of them.

@separatist-apologist @the-lonelybarricade @crazy-ache @zenkindoflove @limeandorange @wilde-knight @aldbooks @buffy-vanserra @musty-old-claptrap @climbthemountain2020 @clarafae @themadmorrigan @frostystarlight @clockwork-ashes @sapphiresandgold @pinkfuneral7 @velidewrites @secret-third-thing @acourtofladydeath @theladyofbloodshed and far more over on the archive!!

I strive to be better, sharper and more consistent with every new chapter I write, because I am surrounded by people who inspire me daily with their work and passion and love for this, be it hobby or craft.

I gave up on writing as a teenager because academic life got too busy, followed by work life, but now that I have finally allowed myself to do it, it means everything to me. Now that I’ve got it back, I’m never letting it go again. Even if it’s hard, even if it’s terrible, even if it’s cringe, even if it never sees the light of day. I will always be grateful to this community for that.

And to anyone who has read, left a comment or a kudos on even one chapter that I’ve written, thank you from the very bottom of my silly little heart. It means more than you know.

From fan events to fan art and shenanigans (@dearsellyn @koscheionthelake) I have been thoroughly entertained through what has been a tough year personally. Thank you for all of it 🩷

Here’s to embracing cringe, writing heart-wrenching yearning and gratuitous smut, and to canon Elucien dream sex in 2026 🥂 happy new year!!

I’ve been thinking a lot about the past year, and how I made the decision to finally read that little red book about faeries after years of resistance. But I think everything fell into place when it was supposed to.

In the last 12 months, I’ve read 31 books (half of that being SJM’s, and that’s not counting re-reads/re-listens) which was unfathomable to me when I first picked ACOTAR up.

Back in the spring, I revived my tumblr and AO3 for the first time in well over a decade only to discover a whole new world of devoted fans who (mostly) loved a lot of what I loved. Fandom at 29 is not the same as fandom at 14, and so much about that culture has changed, but the broad strokes remain the same, and the core of which has always been and still is — community.

When I first posted TSIMH, it was after word vomiting into the first three chapters into a google doc on my phone while on holiday at my grandma’s house because I couldn’t keep it in. That led me to read fic after fic after fic, and discover some of the kindest, most talented people and writers and artists.

Since then I have published almost 150k words of my own work (and drafted around the same 😅), easily read hundreds of thousands of other people’s brilliant words. And have been endlessly inspired by every single one of them.

@separatist-apologist @the-lonelybarricade @crazy-ache @zenkindoflove @limeandorange @wilde-knight @aldbooks @buffy-vanserra @musty-old-claptrap @climbthemountain2020 @clarafae @themadmorrigan @frostystarlight @clockwork-ashes @sapphiresandgold @pinkfuneral7 @velidewrites @secret-third-thing @acourtofladydeath @theladyofbloodshed and far more over on the archive!!

I strive to be better, sharper and more consistent with every new chapter I write, because I am surrounded by people who inspire me daily with their work and passion and love for this, be it hobby or craft.

I gave up on writing as a teenager because academic life got too busy, followed by work life, but now that I have finally allowed myself to do it, it means everything to me. Now that I’ve got it back, I’m never letting it go again. Even if it’s hard, even if it’s terrible, even if it’s cringe, even if it never sees the light of day. I will always be grateful to this community for that.

And to anyone who has read, left a comment or a kudos on even one chapter that I’ve written, thank you from the very bottom of my silly little heart. It means more than you know.

From fan events to fan art and shenanigans (@dearsellyn @koscheionthelake) I have been thoroughly entertained through what has been a tough year personally. Thank you for all of it 🩷

Here’s to embracing cringe, writing heart-wrenching yearning and gratuitous smut, and to canon Elucien dream sex in 2026 🥂 happy new year!!

"The High Lord of Winter has a residence not far from here," Lucien suggested. "I could winnow us there."

"The pilgrimage is supposed to be made on foot," Elain argued, studiously looking anywhere except his bare chest.

He hadn't removed his arms, still cradling her, and she hadn't asked him to. As far as Lucien was concerned, she needed the body heat, even if that meant torturing himself with the press of her smaller body against his. They'd been travelling for almost two days now, and she still smelled pleasantly of jasmine and honey—how did she manage it?

Those distracting thoughts clung to him like cobwebs, but he did his best to shake them off. To keep focus. "We'll winnow back here once we have suitable clothing. It will be like we never strayed off the path."

Did that still count? He could see Elain puzzling over that very same question. Her tutors had likely advised against exploiting loopholes in the scriptures, but he couldn't imagine they'd advocate for riding naked through the plains of the Winter Court. After sundown, no less.

"You winnow," Elain suggested. "You're not beholden to the rituals. I can wait here until you return with clothing."

Lucien gritted his teeth. "I'm not leaving you here alone."

"I won't be alone." Elain gestured to the horses waiting outside the cave. "I have Storm and… forgive me, what is your horse's name?"

"Rhea."

"Right. Storm and Rhea will keep me company."

"Absolutely not."

She huffed. "My, you're bossy all of the sudden."

"You almost died," Lucien said, hearing his voice was too sharp, but unable to soften it. "My one, singular responsibility is to keep you alive. I can't let you go outside in your current state, nor can I leave you by yourself in the wild."

Elain leaned back, studying his face. "But the scriptures—"

"Won't matter if you're dead!" He snapped, resisting the urge to shake her. "Prythian will be no better off if you kill yourself trying to unlock your magic."

Her face hardened. "At least I'm trying!" She struggled to sit up, baring her teeth in his direction. "At least if I die, I'll know I did everything I could! Better that than to be known as the Princess to a throne of nothing. The one who sat back and watched while Calamity destroyed the world."

Her carefully groomed hair had become a wet, tangled mess, sticking to her neck and the sides of her face. With her cheeks and nose still red from the cold, and her eyes splotched with tears, the agony of holding her—naked—in his arms became all the more severe. And instead of savoring the sight of her, he was arguing.

"Is that what you want?" Lucien snarled. "To take the easy way out and die a hero, so you don't have to face the Calamity and risk failing when it matters most? Let it rend the world to ash and have us deal with the aftermath?"

The princess's eyes widened, and he thought he might have struck too close, too deep. She tried to scramble out of his arms, but he caught her, dragging her into smoke and shadow until they emerged on the other side. In a palace of ice that was unburdened by cold.

"Get off of me!" She cried, pushing him away.

Lucien let his arms fall, obediently stepping aside.

Elain kept one arm clutched tightly around the cloak, keeping it from revealing her exposed body beneath. With the other, she slammed a fist into his chest.

"How could you?" Her eyes were shining with tears. "The pilgrimage is ruined!"

"It was already ruined," he pointed out. "You didn't finish the prayer. And I entered the spring."

She turned away, covering her face. "Go."

"What?"

"Go back and get the horses," she said, her voice firmer. "Find the other guards and tell them where I am."

"I'm not leaving—"

"Princess Elain?"

They both turned to see a tall male with white hair approaching them, accompanied by a pair of guards on either side. The High Lord of Winter. Elain quickly dashed her tears on the side of Lucien's cloak, then tilted her chin up.

"We're not in the wild anymore," she said. There was a disturbing vacancy to the way she spoke, reminiscent of the unflinching tone of the High King. "There are guards here to protect me. You're dismissed, Sir Lucien."

The Master Sword trembled in its scabbard, but Lucien ignored it and bowed his head. "Yes, Your Highness."

-

It took all night for Lucien to find where the other guards made camp—a stable, about halfway to the Winter Court capital. The stable was clearly built for travelers, intended as a place of respite for those traversing the wide winter plains, as there were no caves or other means of shelter for miles.

Lucien left Storm and Rhea in the heated stable, grateful to let them rest with access to food and water while he finally had the chance to sleep.

"Where's the princess?" Sir Graysen asked when Lucien collapsed onto the bed beside him—the one which had clearly been left for her, if the pile of furs and pillows was any indication.

He was too tired to answer. At some time in the night, an exhausted weariness had settled in his bones, making them feel heavier. Stiffer. The Master Sword hadn't stopped protesting since the moment he left Elain. When he took it off, he thought he would be relieved to be free of it, but felt oddly as though he were missing a limb.

The world was too quiet. The static in his head had dissipated, and instead there was… nothing.

Nothing wasn't good. Nothing gave him too much time to think.

Was Elain safe? Would she forgive him? What if Calamity rose tomorrow and he wasn't at her side?

He didn't know how long those thoughts swirled in his mind before he drifted off, but he knew that when he was shaken awake the next morning by Sir Andras, it felt as if he'd only just shut his eyes.

"Lucien," Andras said. "Where's the princess?"

"High Lord's Palace," he mumbled. "Need to meet her."

"What happened at the spring?"

There was no way he was getting into that with any of the knights. Not after their commentary on the princess the day prior. When he didn't answer, Andras sighed.

"Will you at least tell me what happened to your shirt?"

Lucien had been so exhausted that he'd actually forgotten he wasn't wearing one. "I prefer to sleep like this." It was only a partial lie. "Grab me a new one, will you?"

While it wasn't a full night's sleep, Lucien could admit he felt better having rested. His mind was clearer, and he was already wishing he could re-attempt the last 24 hours. Approach it differently, and emerge with the princess's health and trust still intact. As it were, all Lucien could do was push the knights to travel quickly, making up lost time to arrive at the High Lord's palace by midday.

He had visited the residence a few times during his training. The High King's regiment of knights was comprised largely of High Lord sons and other High Fae with ties to nobility. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement—the High Lords would send their sons to accrue recognition in the service of the High King for a few centuries, and in exchange, the High King would dispatch his units for any number of disturbances within each of the seven territories.

Over the years, Lucien had been dispatched to the Winter Court to assist with various missions—a migoi sighting in the mountains being the most exciting. Though the time he and Tamlin were tasked with herding escaped yaks was not without its amsuements.

It was as Lucien was musing over that memory, feeling a stab of longing for a time when his only concern had been returning to the castle without yak-sized bites taken from his uniform surcoat, that he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision.

He held up a hand, signalling the other knights to come to a halt. At his back, he heard the bright, tinny song of metal as the knights drew their swords.

"Weapons down," he said, dismounting. "Wait here."

"What is it?" Andras called, but Lucien was already giving chase through the snow.

-

Hours later, Lucien rapped his knuckles against the door to the suite of rooms the princess was staying in.

"Who is it?" She called.

He hesitated, knowing if he said his name, he'd be turned away.

Unfortunately, his silence was just as incriminating.

"Go away, Lucien."

He'd have to do his best to convince her, then. "I have a surprise for you."

"Another book?"

No. He hadn't thought of that, though in a palace that was sure to have a few libraries, perhaps he should have.

"Open the door," he said. "It would be better to show you."

He needed to survey the room, anyway. This was unfamiliar territory, and he felt antsy keeping the princess out of sight. The palace seemed secure enough, but it wasn't nearly as fortified as the castle.

The silence stretched, leaving Lucien taut, a bowstring moments from snapping and just breaking down the damn door himself.

Then it opened. The princess stood before him, finally adequately dressed for the weather in a velvet long-sleeved dress, complete with a fur-trimmed cloak clasped over her shoulders. He never thought he'd feel so ecstatic to see a female buried in layers of clothing.

"What is it?" She asked with a prim, upturned sniff.

Lucien grinned. "Hold out your hands."

She watched him through distrusting eyes, but cupped her hands together regardless. "If it's something disgusting, I'll stab you with that sword," she warned.

"I know."

With exacting caution, Lucien reached into the satchel he'd borrowed from Sir Bron. "Close your eyes," he added, before gently removing the small, fluffy creature. The princess jolted when he placed it in her hands, and her eyes immediately snapped open to stare with parted lips at the white rabbit before her.

"It's Nelly," he said.

Her lower lip began trembling.

Lucien swallowed past the thickness in his throat, saying lightly, "You mustn't cry every time I give you a present. I'll start to think you don't like them."

For once, it was Elain who was at a loss for words. With an unladylike sniffle, she brought the rabbit protectively to her chest, stroking it fondly between the ears.

"May I come in?" Lucien asked. "I need to make sure Nelly's the only intruder."

Elain nodded numbly, stepping aside as she continued holding the rabbit like nothing else mattered more. He didn't think when he caught the rabbit that he'd grow jealous of the damn thing, but it was clear the princess was completely enamoured with it.

It made him brave enough to ask, "Am I forgiven?"