Chapter Text
Lance is seven years old when he runs from his house, heartbeat skipping in his chest. The night is alive with the crisp wind of winter, the likes of which brushes his hair across his flushed cheeks. On his back there is a pouch filled with things he thought he'd need: a roll of parchment, two sticks of charcoal, a tin of matches and one good piece of bread, jam in a jar on the side.
For, you see, Lance is going on an adventure.
He skids down a sloping hill in his fathers field, small hands grappling with the dying grass. Strands tickle his skin but he doesn't falter for even a moment, not when the forest blooms before him like magic. And, well, he supposes that's exactly what he's here for.
Like all boys born beneath a full moon, he has power running through his veins. Even at an age as young as this, he can feel it. He senses it by the lake, by the fires they roast their meats on and within these deep woods. It's a solitary practice but he's had help.
Before his grandma passed, she taught him many things.
Listen for the will o' wisps. She'd whisper in his ear, the night falling around them in soft waves. Talk to the stars and you will never be lead astray.
Now, Lance intends to complete a spell all on his own. There's no need for the journal she'd left beneath his pillow, which is now safely tucked between his mattress and the wooden frame of his bed. And there's definitely no need for the advice of his father, who would quicker send him to the gallows than help him scribble runes into the dirt.
So, he walks alone.
The trek is long and he's been warned to stay away from this forest. The pines grow taller than others, the space between the trunks dark enough to play tricks if you look too long. He's watched the branches and leaves sway from the safe distance of his own bedroom window many mornings and nights, wondering if perhaps someone was staring back.
Get away from that window! His father would hiss, pulling at Lance's arm. His eyes would flicker toward the dark trees before the curtain would fall, shrouding both of them from what lurks beyond.
Part of Lance knows his father just wants to keep him safe. The older man is mindful of the warnings from the village elders and he's taught the legends to his children, making sure they remember the horror stories of people who got the nerve to explore. Lance thinks of those who have disappeared, most without a trace. Some old but most young, they all followed similar paths as he does now. Their steps were full of determination, gazes steely and sure in the night.
Only, Lance knows none of those people were like him.
He picks up his pace in fear that his father will wake and find him missing, his voice strong enough to reach his ears from down the hill. Grass eaten by their goats and horses and cows give way to tall wheat, the kind that brushes his shoulders, the kind he has to push away with the back of a small brown hand. It itches against his legs but he doesn't stop, even when a cloud passes over the light of the moon.
He simply centers himself and holds a palm face-up, knowing he can do it if he concentrates. Heat travels from the core of his belly to the chambers of his heart, working its way to the tips of his fingers. When it bursts alight, he grins. It's the type of smile that is triumphant and a bit arrogant, full of the belief that he's invincible.
In the grand scheme of things, he knows that he's not.
So, listening to the voice of his grandmother, he pushes that self-fulfilling pride down. He holds his hand above the swaying wheat and lets it light his path, making sure to keep the flame moving as a simple spinning circle. He's never made it so far without being caught and that makes him hurry even faster, a grin slowly climbing on his face. Now his feet find place in the wild grass, the kind that grows flowers in the midst of thorn, berries sprouting in the spring before the summer rain washes them away. He's careful with his steps, heart beating quickly in his chest.
The forest looms in front of and above him like a sleeping giant.
He whispers a local rhyme to himself, voice shaky.
Don't go to the Whispering Wood,
Where spirits roam,
Up to no good.
If you go,
We tell you so,
Your feet will ache,
Your heart will burn
And in the end,
You will never return.
He gulps and transfers the fire in his palm to the lantern hanging at his belt, small and compact and perfect for someone of his short stature. It flickers before catching on the oiled wick. He's close enough to the treeline that if he wanted to, he could touch it. He could feel the bark beneath his fingertips, hear the crunch of fallen leaves beneath his boots-
Suddenly, there is a rustling in the underbrush. It makes Lance take a step back, eyes going round with imagination. He waits, breath starting to stutter in his throat as his mind creates fearsome monsters. Though, before he can turn and run back the way he came, a dark figure steps into view.
"Hello." The man whispers, his voice silky and quiet.
Lance's skin breaks out in chills and even if he could relight another flame in his hand, he's sure it wouldn't warm him.
The man takes a small step forward, stopping short of leaving the forest altogether. He leans down just a bit, just enough for his loose silver hair to fall across a bare shoulder.
"Are you lost?"
Lance shakes his head, "No, sir."
At this, the man grins. His teeth are white and straight, eyes shadowed by some kind of dark paint. It's a slash across his eyelids and his temples, sharp as a knife.
"What is your name?" He asks, tilting his head.
The gesture should be threatening. It should send Lance running back for the hills.
Instead, he inches closer. His toes curl in his boots as if his body were fighting his mind, screaming at him to stop.
"What's yours?"
The man blinks, long lashes pale as snow. He regards Lance like one would a dog who thinks he's a wolf; full of amusement.
"If I tell you mine, will you tell me yours?" The man asks.
The question is tricky and it makes Lance pause, brows drawing together beneath the fringe of his wavy hair. There's dirt on his cheek and he subconsciously wipes at it, watching as the man holds out a slim, pale hand.
"Come." He whispers, voice slithering against Lance's eardrums, "I sense a flame in you, child."
"You do?" Lance breathes, a flash of his grandmother's face shining behind his eyelids.
In his memory, she is stirring a pot of stew and letting him leaf through her books, herbs and their purposes a loss to his young illiteracy. She'd wobble over and work out a few terms with him before nodding at his pronunciation, a wrinkled brown finger pointing at roots and soil and drawn diagrams of the human body.
"I do." The man smiles again, though this time it is less threatening. If anything, it makes Lance fill to the brim with excitement. "My name is Lotor."
"Weird name."
The man, Lotor, chuckles. It's a dark, hollow sound but to Lance's ears it's as bright as the shining moon.
"Now yours." Lotor urges, eyes trailing to the tip of Lance's fingers. "Before you can enter this realm, I must know your name-"
Suddenly, a twig snaps.
Both of them pause and like the putting out of a candle, Lance blinks awake. He shakes his head and stumbles back until he falls, unsure if what he's seeing is real. Lotor's face flickers from something beautiful and welcoming to something monstrous and sharp on all edges. His teeth are too long, skin scaled, two gnarly horns protruding from his temples. He turns to glare behind him with eyes that glow a dull, sickly yellow.
"What are you doing here?" His accent changes, slowly transitioning into one Lance doesn't fully understand.
His eyes catch on movement behind Lotor, on rustling bushes and a shock of black hair. The boy looks to be about Lance's age but he's wispy, almost shadowed and faulty. It seems he'll disappear at any moment.
They converse in a snapping language, the words harsh and sharp.
And then, with no other warning than the drag of Lotor's eyes back to Lance's fallen body, they are gone.
Just like that, he is alone.
His breathing is ragged in his chest, his mind a whir of confusion. Still, with only the hooting of an owl and the crunching of leaves in the distance, Lance decides that perhaps tonight isn't the best night for his little excursion after all. He imagines his warm bed and the sound of his mother breathing as she sleeps, the purr of their cat and the creaky roof.
Like a bolt of lightning he gets to his feet and zooms away. Back through the wild grasses and wheat field he runs, all the while feeling as if someone were following close behind. All the while feeling as if eyes were trained on his neck, intent to rip apart his flesh.
"I know you're there!"
Lance's call is loud in the night and though he's only just passed his fourteenth birthday, his voice has finally begun to crack and morph. He clears his throat the moment it happens, cheeks growing hot and red at how he must sound. He wanted to sound intimidating, like a warrior from the stories in town. He doesn't want to seem like a child, like a boy who has yet to strike an arrow into an animal or meld iron into a sword. Instead, dirt rests beneath his nails and his voice is used to low hums, the kind that make flowers bloom instead of wilt.
Taking a few steps closer to the forest, he channels his younger self and pushes all of that childlike wonder into tough resolve. Like the warriors and brave knights, he straightens his shoulders and lifts his head, the small dagger in his palm feeling much too sweaty though he never once lets it drop to the ground. Never will he run from these trees again. Never will his father look at him with disapproval and disappointment.
Lance grimaces and holds his dagger tighter, looking for a flash of silver. For the face of a man who isn't really a man; for the one who fueled many of his nights with dreams of blood.
"I know you're there!" He calls again, wishing he could use his magic to rip the man from his hiding place. "If you don't show yourself-"
"Why are you so loud?"
The voice is wrong. Lance can tell the difference the moment the words meet his ears, sounding much too quiet; not at all like a slithering, predatory thing.
"Show yourself." Lance orders, gulping.
The light of the moon catches on something red, which is practically glowing between the dark brown trunks of the trees. His eyes find the gem and they hold, noticing the way it glints as if it had an internal light all on its own. When the boy steps fully into view, Lance wonders if perhaps his memory had been wrong.
He wonders if the man in silver had been a figment of a dream. If he'd never been there at all.
"You should turn back." The boy says, black hair shaggy around his throat. He regards Lance with an unsure gaze, his head tilting the moment he notices the dagger within Lance's grasp. "It isn't safe for you here."
"This is my fathers land." Lance gulps again, feeling as if sludge were caught in his throat, "So are these trees. If I'm safe anywhere it should be here."
The boy takes a few steps closer, until Lance can finally recognize the gem for what it is.
"Skyflame?" Lance asks, though he already knows that his assumption is correct if the shocked look on the boys face is anything to go by.
"How do you know of the Skyflame?"
Lance's voice is breathy, matching the wonder now taking over his previous fear. "I've read about it in all of my books. The Skyflame is rare, almost thought to be lost to time, most likely given back to the core of the world. It seems the illustrations are lacking compared to the real thing." He looks up, meeting the boys suspicious gaze. "How do you have it?"
"It's the gem of my people. We wear it to keep us safe from the likes of you."
"Me?"
Silence falls. Nighttime sounds go quiet, the rush in Lance's ears turning to a muted drone. He's put on edge, if only because he knows the boy is dangerous. That he is not human.
Lance tries again, squaring his shoulders in hopes that it makes him look larger. He is very aware of his slim figure, the curve of his calves and length of his fingers; the way they prefer mixing herbs to working a molten ax.
"Who are you?" He asks, "Where are you from?"
"Here."
Lance gulps, "Where, exactly, is here?"
The boy's mouth tilts, lips rising in a minuscule show of amusement. He swings an arm to the trees, "Here."
Lance holds up his lantern, squinting into the dark. "I see no houses."
"I do not live in a house." The boy's voice is changing, turning almost playful and trickling. "I wander the streams, find rest at the treetops. My home is right here, beneath my feet."
Suddenly, he takes a quick step back. Lance expects something to happen, his entire body tensing at the threat of danger. But the boy pulls no weapon and speaks no cursing tongue. He simply watches Lance, eyes reflecting the pulsing light of his Skyflame.
"What are you doing?" Lance asks, taking a hesitant step forward.
"Waiting."
"To kill me?" Lance guesses, "To trap me in an endless dance, I assume?"
A laugh flows into the air, "No." The boy nods his head back, "I'm inviting you into my home."
Realistically, Lance should refuse. It'd be smart to turn away and plead to his father to listen to his testament of meeting strange people in the forest; to ask the spirit of his grandma for a sign on what course to take. But the moon is high and Lance feels his magic grow with energy, a constant zap along his body that pleads with him to leave his fields and his horses and his small house behind. At least for the night. At least until he can sate this curiosity and rid himself of thoughts of childish ventures.
With a brush of brisk wind on his cheek, he holds his lantern forward, making sure his path is lit in case he needs to get away. Underbrush crunches beneath his feet and before he knows it, he's crossing into new territory. Almost instantly, the boy places his hand on top of Lance's, slowly guiding the lantern away from the space between their chests.
"You don't need that here." He says, voice turning to a whisper.
Lance furrows his brows, "I won't be able to see. My magic-"
"Will come to life."
With that, the fire goes out.
Lance blinks against the dark, spine going rigid as he hears the forest rustle and breathe. The knife in his hand is held tighter, jaw clenching with the grinding of his teeth. Though he's young, he's sure he can fight to survive. He can plunge the blade forward until it pierces any enemy.
"Keep your eyes open." The boy's voice is quiet and so close to Lance he can't help but flinch back.
The Skyflame suddenly illuminates the boy's face and Lance is startled to see the glow of his eyes, the color as lively as a fire in the hearth. When he backs away, the world is not as it once was.
Everything glows.
"How are you doing this?" Lance asks, "Are you a witch too?"
The boy snorts, "I'm not."
"Then what are you?" Lance asks, taking hesitant steps closer to the boy's wandering form. The weight of his feet make the fallen leaves pulse in shades of blue and orange, "Who are you?"
"My name is Keith."
"You're the child from that night so long ago, aren't you?" Lance sees Keith tense, "I remember you. I remember the man with silver hair."
Suddenly, Keith whips around. He's grown serious, the heavy set of his eyes darkening. "Don't speak of him." His fists clench, "Never say his name."
"I hardly remember his name." Lance admits.
"Good." Keith sighs and touches the Skyflame with his fingertips. Then, with another slow smirk rising on his face, he reaches for Lance's hand. He grabs hold as if he wishes to tether them together, "Come, then. If these are your woods too, there is much to show you."
At nineteen years old, Lance is a huffing, angry storm.
His father sits with his head in his hands, eyes downcast against the sound of pouring rain. Thunder rumbles and Lance wishes, just for once, that he didn't feel so alive at the sound of it. For now, he wants to feel normal. He wants it to be just another storm, one that won't beg him to go outside and feel it soak into his skin.
"There has to be another way-"
His father shakes his head, "You aren't married and the young ones are at an age for work. The likes of which can't be found here."
"But..." Lance blinks away tears, "this is our home. Grandma and Pa built it with their bare hands."
"I can't stay to look after it. The city will take the life from me but it will at least give them a chance at life." He glares up at his son, "Don't you get that? If all of us stay here, we'll starve by midwinter."
"But-"
"Grow up, Lance!" His father shouts, slamming his hand on the table. "For too long I've allowed you to plant flowers and stare at the clouds. Your childhood is over even if you wish it would never end."
Lance stares at the table that has been stained with berries and paints, chipped by Lance's knife while he carved little figurines for the market, the wood smelling of pine and bread and home. He sucks in a sharp breath and stares at the name of his mother, at her silly attempt to mark the surface. Lance holds on to that engraving with his life.
He stares at it, refusing to look his father in the eye.
"I'm.." His father sighs and picks up a mug of ale, gulping it down with a scowl on his lips. "I'm sorry, son. But there's no way we could sell this place. The land is no longer rich for crop and I'm too weak to till and take care of the animals..it's time for nature to take it all back-"
"Bullshit." Lance whispers, the words shaky with anger. "You just don't want to try anymore. Ever since Momma died, you've given up."
The silence feels like all the screaming in the world put together. Still, he doesn't take the words back. He wracks his brain for an answer, for a way out of this. The only option would be to send his sisters to the city by themselves and well, that isn't really much of an option at all, is it?
"What if," He gulps and uses the blunt of his fingernail to touch his mother's name, "what if I stay behind?"
"What?"
Thunder shakes their house, down to the stone of the foundation. The fireplace roars but it does little to warm Lance's skin, to cast away the hollow pit reopening in his gut. He nods and finally raises his head, meeting his father's stare head-on.
"I can stay behind. Watch the house and sell cheese and milk and my carvings." He winces, "You don't have to come back. The girls can go to school and maybe find someone good to marry if that's what they choose. Maybe they can travel and explore the world."
"I can't let you stay-"
Lance squares his shoulders, "I'm not asking."
For once, his father doesn't reply.
Night, like most others, welcomes Lance with the light of the moon. He sits among the swaying grass, watching the treeline for a guiding flame. It's been three months since his family left him and he's yet to work on his magic; to find the energy to carry on with what he's always been best at. Relying on the moon and stars for rejuvenation is all he can do to stay afloat.
Fireflies dance around the hills and he rests his chin on his forearms, knees drawn toward his chest. Summer has just ended and already the cold Northern winds are lifting his hair, promising to bring feet of glittering snow. But for now, he relishes in the warmth of the dirt beneath his bare feet.
He waits and waits, eyes growing only a little bit heavy before he spots the light leaving the edge of the trees.
When Keith arrives, he wastes no time in throwing his arrows to the ground, his long black hair braided and swinging from the slope of his shoulder as he takes a seat. They say nothing for a moment but a moment is all it takes for Lance to initiate a conversation.
"You've been away for some time." He says.
Keith hums and leans closer, bringing with him the fresh air of the mountains. He smells of pine and frost and Lance breathes him in almost desperately. He turns to Keith and buries his face in neck, eyelashes brushing against his warm skin. It'd taken them no time at all to become closer over the course of five years and Lance should have known he would develop feelings that run deeper than friendship.
"I've brought you something." Keith says, voice a few octaves deeper than Lance's own.
He reaches for a satchel and pulls out an ornate carved chest, small enough to fit in his palm but looking very heavy all the same.
"I thought you were participating in some ancient fairy ritual." Lance breathes a laugh against Keith's skin, "Not making me presents."
"Do you want it or not?" Keith teases, already moving to put it away.
Lance reaches and snatches it, cheeks growing in warmth and color for the first time in a long time. He can't help the smile threatening to take over his features and he can't help settling across from Keith until their knees touch. Looking up at him, Lance asks if he can open it without the need for words.
Keith simply nods, face relaxed.
Unlatching the small clasp, Lance opens the chest with nimble, gentle touches. It's sturdy but he's worried he'll do something stupid, like pull the lid off of the hinges completely. Keith leans closer and runs a finger along Lance's knuckles, eyes flitting about his face as if he were nervous.
If not for the cool wind rushing into Lance's nose, he'd think it possible that his breath was being stolen from his lungs.
"Wait." His voice hitches and his eyes shoot to Keith's neck, where the Skyflame usually sits.
Only now it is a partial gem. A half sun, embedded with fragments of glowing blue. In the chest the rest of the Skyflame is curved, taking on the shape of a crescent; of the moon. He gathers the ethereal chain and holds it up between them, eyes following the sway as it glitters and shines.
"What do you think?" Keith asks, glancing between the necklace and Lance's face. "The mountains hold the stones of Eterna, kept safe by sacred pools. I saw them and all I could think of was you. For too long, I was alone. Even within the company of my own people, there was a piece of me missing. Until I saw you. Until you trusted me and stepped into the forest."
Lance gulps, his throat thick with tears. "You broke your flame-"
"I morphed them together." Ketih says, "That's all."
"It's-" Lance quickly moves to put it on, stomach fluttering when it sits prettily against the hollow of his throat, "Thank you." He looks up at Keith, "I love it."
Relief pours across Keith's face and he reaches for his bag again, this time bringing dew of the mountain from a deerskin flask. He drinks and Lance watches the way his throat bobs, the way his mouth comes away with a pretty sheen of silver. Beside them, Lance's hand presses against the earth. He closes his eyes for only a moment, long enough to feel the bud beneath his fingers, before letting a flower spring free.
Picking it, he pushes the stem behind Keith's ear, smirking when the pink petals nestle into his hair. Hair that he's grown fond of running his fingers through, that he likes to tug and braid and feel against his back in the early morning hours. He lets his hand fall away but Keith surges forward to take it back, lacing their fingers together.
Then, with the dew forgotten and spilling beside them in the grass, their lips collide.