Archive of Our Own

"You're tense, Van."

Vanyel demurred, without a great deal of conviction.

"Is it the waiting? The close quarters? I always *knew* I shouldn't tease Ardam about getting caught in the Waystations up north... now he'll never let me live this one down." His voice was indignant, but his hands were still steadily pulling the little knife over the lump of pale wood without pause. Keeping some form of easy entertainment in your saddlebags was a Heraldic tradition, but Van had never known what Tantras's preferred diversion was before now; with every Herald-Mage Valdemar had, and a dozen more as well, needed at the Karsite border, Vanyel rarely travelled in the company of other Heralds.

On the other hand, that meant he also rarely ended up snowbound in a Waystation. A few more days of this, and he was going to risk some weatherworking, no matter what amount of havoc it might do to the weather systems over the battlefields.

Neither Tantras's unusual presence nor the close quarters were the problem; not in themselves, anyway. "No, it's just..."

Tran sobered, all at once, and took his gaze from the carving at last. "It's Sovvan, isn't it." Not a question. "You think we'll still be stuck here."

"Yes," exhaled softly.

And so they were. Sovvan Night brought Vanyel's demons along with another foot of snow; he retreated to the inner room, holding but not drinking a mug of tea. Tantras watched him go, noting the strain in his thin shoulders, and... considered.

Candlemarks later, when he nicked his thumb with the carving knife, he gently set both on the table and stood. Vanyel had been creeping into his thoughts all evening; at first in tiny flashes, but slowly gathering force -- now he could think of nothing else, and fear was beginning to creep up his spine. Van was so silent in there, whatever he was doing...

He padded to the door, contemplated and discarded knocking, and eased the door open. Vanyel was still clothed, his Whites shining dimly in the darkness. That was encouraging, but it was all that seemed so. The Herald-Mage was curled around himself, forehead on knees and arms wrapped about his legs, eyes closed.

"Van?" His whisper came out hoarse, as well as hesitant; a little raspy with trepidation, and deep uncertainty: Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron was his friend, but the courtiers didn't call him the Ice Mage for no reason. Not even with friends (which Van had few enough of) did Vanyel share the darkness that hovered near his heart.

The dark head slowly raised; before he could unfold, Tran slipped to the edge of the bed and draped an arm around him. He said nothing further; Vanyel remained silent as well, but Tran could feel a fine shivering beneath two layers of Whites. He scooted even closer, tucking his own feet under a pillow to one side and bringing both arms to bear on the poor figure locked in mourning beside him. He wanted to speak, to utter soothing words, but he had none. What could I possibly say? He lost his lifebonded, not his winter cloak. It's not the sort of thing that mends with time. So he held quiet vigil with his friend through the dim, frigid candlemarks of the early morning; even the howl of the snowstorm was muted.

At last, at what Tantras blearily judged to be near sunrise, Vanyel stiffly uncurled, and looked away as though in embarrassment. Oh, no -- you're not going to go shy and remorseful on me now. When Vanyel really looked at him, and opened his mouth, he set his fingers against Van's lips, and pulled him down to the bed. When he was sure Vanyel didn't intend to talk, he stood up (also stiffly -- he was getting old, no doubt of it) and rearranged the blankets, drawing them over the Whites-clad form and smoothing them down with a parental gesture.

Then he walked around to crawl in behind, and curled himself tightly against the man's tense, tired spine. "Sleep," he murmured, wishing for a moment that he was a Mage, to make the command a spell.

Vanyel woke to silence, and a sleepy warmth. There was a body behind him, radiating heat, and breath upon his neck. Strangely enough, he knew exactly who and where; there was no panic. Tantras. Tantras, who had held him and put him to bed, who had kept silent watch over his Sovvan mourning.

'Lendel's absence was a sharp ache in his chest, but the heat seeping through his tunic from behind was... soothing. That was what truly alarmed him; the easing of pain, however minor, seemed a betrayal on this of all mornings. Yet it was so unexpectedly comforting, the mere fact of a human presence that had seen his pain, and his scars, and even his strangeness, and had stayed nonetheless to offer whatever could be given. It's too early for contemplation, Van decided.

Well, technically it was early evening, but with the windows snowed closed it might have been any time at all. More to the point, Van didn't trust his ability to handle his own emotions right then. Sovvan Night, and the loss it stood for, was too close. Slowly, he eased himself away from Tran's solidity and out of bed, to make some tea and perhaps talk to 'Fandes. Tantras deserved some sleep, after keeping him company through the long Sovvan chill.

Tea brought alertness but not clarity. He didn't know what to feel, half embarrassed to have his pain revealed, and uneasily aware of Tantras's grace and kindness even in the depths of his grief, and colder than stone at the same time. When Tran had touched his lips, for just a moment he had thought a kiss would follow -- and had been honestly terrified, revolted, and hopeful all at once.

::Fandes, love?::

::Yes, Chosen?::

::I trust you and Sylvas are all right?::

::Just fine. Snug and tight, although I do hope this snow stops soon; we're both getting a bit of cabin fever. And you, beloved?::

::I'm... all right. Or not all right, but not... I don't know.::

::I see.:: Her voice was grave.

Van snorted wryly; ::Do you? I'm not surprised if you do, but you're welcome to the details anyway.::

He opened his memories of the last night, and of this evening's waking, to her, and waited. Disclaimers or not, he thought he felt a small ripple of surprise go through her, before her voice returned.

::No wonder you're confused, Chosen.::

He sent a mental "nod," a wordless sense of agreement.

::Yes, no wonder. You always did have the hardest time grasping simple motives.:: Her voice carried a smattering of humour, a gentle tease.

Vanyel blinked. ::Simple? 'Fandes, I have no idea why...::

::Because, Chosen, he loves you. As a friend, a brother in arms. Could you see Savil in pain and not want to ease it? Could you watch Shavri mourn and not join her?:: His Companion's mindvoice was firm. ::Thank him, Chosen. You're always so hard to read; he probably won't know at all if he's managed to help you, or hurt you, if you don't.::

::All right, love. And thank you.::

::You're welcome,:: she returned drowsily, with genuine warmth. ::Now, if I can't go out and gallop, I'm going to go back to sleep. Will you come and brush me sometime tomorrow?::

::Of course! Sleep well.::

As her voice subsided, he heard the first stirrings from the bed, and shortly after-- just as he was pouring fresh tea into a second mug-- Tantras appeared in the doorway.

"Thank you," he said absently, accepting the mug and dropping into the rickety chair.

"And to you," Vanyel managed, looking away. "I," but he didn't know what else to say. I'm sorry you were here for that was insulting, if not outright contradictory; Don't worry, I'm much better now was a lie. But while he fumbled for a conclusion, he saw a subtle tension leave Tran's spine, a tension he hadn't noticed till it departed, and realised Yfandes had been right. Oddly, it made something within Vanyel relax, too.

"Welcome, Van. And more than welcome. I only wish," He blinked, then turned his words with visible effort to another path, "this snow would stop. We're going to be ridiculously late getting back, even if Sylvas and Yfandes were able to get word back that we were only stranded, not in trouble."

"If it's still snowing like this two days from now, I'll do something about it," Vanyel shrugged. "We won't be here forever." That in itself seemed less bleak a prospect than it had a day ago. He dredged up a smile for the unlikely cause of his serenity, and turned the conversation toward what they'd be facing once they left the Waystation.