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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.

Chapter Text

"Are you certain this is alright?" Lance whispers between the trees, his breath creating a soft cloud from the heat of his open mouth.

Keith holds his hand and leads him on, his long hair braided and swinging against his back. He turns to look at Lance with a wispy, sly smile. Around them, the forest is quiet in the brunt of the cold. Above them, the mountain towers in the distance like a Giant forgotten to the forge of time, just waiting to come alive. Lance's thighs ache with the slope of the land but he hurries to keep up with his lover.

"If you don't answer me soon, I'll-"

Keith hushes him with a laugh, his voice sounding more and more wild the further they venture from Lance's world. "You'll enjoy this. Just be quiet and follow me."

"I am." Lance mumbles, though his mouth twitches.

When Keith is in the forest, he is more beautiful than any creature Lance has ever seen. It's not an overdramatized declaration, just a simple fact. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes shine, all the aspects that make him Fae brought to the surface like a lit match. They venture far but soon the path gives way to signs of tread way. Lance can feel the worn dirt of the path and he welcomes the new ease in which he steps.

"Almost there." Keith says, though Lance can assume as much all by himself.

Close by, there is the sound of music. It isn't the usual plucking of guitar like those in the taverns but instead it is something deeper. Fuller. Somehow, in some way, the sounds are both trickling and beating; a mixture of drum and flute, even harp. Already, Lance is entranced.

"Wait." He furrows his brows, "Your people-"

"Are ready to meet you." Keith stops just outside of a final wall of underbrush, the deep green foliage appearing thick and impenetrable. 

Lance meets the steady glow of his eyes and takes a step closer, until their fingers lace and he can calm the new anxiety rising in his stomach.

"I'm human, Keith." Lance gulps, "Our kind...they don't come together as we have. It's practically forbidden and yet-"

Keith tilts his head, "We are the exception."

In his voice, there is hope. In Lance, he feels it sprout if only by the topsoil. So, with a flutter of his heart and a new prickling sweat on his palms, he lets Keith lead him through. They pass through the underbrush but it is more of a veil, one that ripples around them and closes the outer forest off. When Lance looks away from the ground, his eyes sweep up to find a sight he once thought unreal. Spread throughout the valley of the mountain, there is a kingdom. The trees tower with ancient trunks, their branches spreading wide and true. Lights of blue and silver glow but whereas the outer forest is strangely lit, this land is unabashed in its brilliance. A river flows in the distance and Lance can spot people between the trees, their forms walking to and from buildings and small fires. Unlike that of his own world, the entire place is laced in visible magic.

"Can you feel it?" Keith asks, taking a deep breath of the cool wind.

Lance nods and flexes his fingers, feeling the spark of a newborn energy. Above them, the moon glows brighter and the clouds have gone away. He tilts his face toward the silver light, letting it soak into him. The music is louder now and Lance lets Keith bring him into the sprawling city, knowing he looks as strange to the Fae as they do to him. He has no pointed ears, no glowing eyes, no intense Hunters bow strapped across his back. He is mortal; a simple man.

"Why are they doing that?" Lance wonders aloud, eyes following the way they dip their heads at Keith's passing. "What does it mean?"

Keith suddenly sounds rather nervous. "It is a form of respect. Of welcome."

"Respect for who-"

A woman steps into their path, her feet bare in the grass. "Prince." She dips her head and fiery red hair spills over her shoulder, "Welcome home."

Lance goes rigid. His breath is stolen, eyes going wide at the way Keith accepts a crown of polished, sharpened antlers. He slides his eyes to Lance before quickly looking away again, nodding at whatever it is the woman is saying. The language, while slowly being picked up by Lance, is still too foreign for him to understand. He simply waits and when the woman finally walks away, he lets himself feel the entire brunt of the shock.

"You-"

Keith winces, "I was going to tell you. It never came up. I thought it unimportant-"

"How is this," Lance looks around before letting his gaze rest on Keith's crown, "unimportant? How did you..why would you think I wouldn't want to know that you're a prince?"

" I rarely return to this place. Instead, I find comfort in the wild. I find my home in you." He looks sheepish, "Trust me, prince is an unwanted title."

"But it is a title all the same."

Keith stares at him, assessing and full of unconcealed worry. His eyes roam Lance's face and Lance hates it, the way Keith can tell what he's feeling or thinking just by the tilt of his brows. He reaches forward until his palm is resting on Lance's cheek, thumb brushing the skin beneath his eye.

"You are more important than a title." He says, "I would give it up for you, mrath elwenei." 

The words are so softly spoken, so gentle and full of love, that Lance hiccups his next breath. He shuts his eyes for a brief moment, urging his emotions to remain calm. In this place, he feels them stir in his chest along with his magic. He feels alive and buzzing, a jumble of energy that can decide on nothing but this. He leans forward and feels Keith's mouth beneath his own, knowing that the boy is the only thing that will keep Lance from falling prey to this new land. If not for Keith's hand resting on the back of his neck, or the nip of his teeth, Lance fears he'd follow the music and let tears fall freely; he'd become a simple toy to the Fae just as the stories always said he would.

When they pull away, Keith tugs at him. "Explore my world. You worry every day for your farm and your animals. Tonight, you can have fun. You can dance."

The fire that rages in the heart of the town is not one that will spread and become violent. It flickers with control, the flames a pretty orange and blue, altering between the colors depending on the brunt of the wind. 

Lance is breathing heavily from hours of movement, his feet beginning to ache the second he plops down to rest. He takes a sip of the only drink Keith says he can have, if only because the rest are dangerous. All night, the Fae have swarmed Lance and asked him questions. They hold his hands and stare at his ears, most of their eyes eerily wide when he speaks of the human world. He remembers Keith's own warnings about his people and he repeats them to himself when he falters.

The necklace will ward them off but my people are insistent. They want you to owe them, to serve them.

Now, he watches Keith talk to a young boy close by. He holds a knife in his hand and the way he pushes it through the air makes Lance conscious of where he is. He isn't home, in a world progressing to the tunes of machine and iron. This world is primal. Ancient.

"You look strange."

Lance jumps at the voice beside him, not expecting company now that he's escaped the brunt of the crowd. When he looks over, the person is both young and old, a contradiction in the slope of their mouth and eyes. They stare at him as if they already know his answers but also wishes to hear them just for the hell of it.

"So do you." Lance admits, wondering if their short hair is always so wild.

"You're honest." The person says, "Good. If you weren't, I would eat you."

Balking, Lance scoots an inch away. At this, the Fae smirks. A sharp tooth pokes into their bottom lip and they turn to him fully, until their bare toes touch his leg.

"I'm Pidge." They say, "I've never met a human like you."

Lance raises a brow, "I take it you've never met a human at all."

The look he gets makes him laugh, his cheeks already aching from smiling all night. The fire flares a bit brighter beside them and Lance looks up, immediately meeting Keith's gaze. In it, he searches for a warning to get away from the newcomer. But he only nods at Lance before looking away again, returning his attention just in time for the boy to try to swipe at his knees. Lance smirks into his cup and takes a large gulp, enjoying the overly sweet flavor.

"So it's true." Pidge hums and leans closer, their eyes glowing a very dim green. "You are in love with our prince."

Lance sputters, choking. He coughs and draws the attention of others, feeling their eyes like pinpricks of heat. When he finally clears his throat, he simply nods.

Pidge leans even closer, their voice a whisper. "You're the first. His only."

"Oh?" Lance tries to keep from coughing again.

"I've heard you can make fire bloom in your hand." Pidge quickly changes the subject, attention thankfully shifting. "Show me."

With a simple opening of his palm, fire sparks and ignites. He curls his fingers and lets it roam within the spaces in between, feeling the heat but not the pain. Pidge sucks in a fast breath and moves to touch it. When Lance puts it out, they look ready to kill.

"It will burn you." Lance warns, "It's still fire."

"Teach me how to do it."

Lance shakes his head, "I can't. You aren't a witch."

"Teach me anyway." Pidge orders, "I can give you something in return."

At this, Lance freezes. He gulps and hears Keith in his head again, warning him against the tricks of the Fae. Though they cannot lie, they can work their way into a deal. They can trick and steal; they are masters of their craft.

"I don't want anything in return." Lance makes his voice firm, "I'll try to teach you but you owe me nothing."

Pidge looks impressed. Then, they nod.

Lance takes a deep breath and motions for Pidge to do the same, watching as they study the set of his hands and the curve of his fingers. When Lance lets the breath out, he tells Pidge to imagine a spinning orb of light in their belly.

"Focus on it." He says, momentarily shutting his eyes. "Imagine it traveling through your blood and into your chest, all the way to the palm of your hands. When you open your eyes, let the fire light."

He does so, and the flame is alive. When he looks down, Pidge is scowling.

"It didn't work." They look up at him from the fringe of their hair.

Lance stops himself from ruffling their hair, feeling a pang of sorrow at the memory of his own little siblings. He'd mess up their braids and laugh when they tried to swat him away, yelling at him and cursing his name. 

"If Keith brings me back, I can try to teach you again." He says.

"You wish to return?" Above them, Keith sounds glad.

Lance doesn't know when he arrived but he's glad that he did. He meets his eye and barely notices Pidge leave before he grabs hold of Keith's hand, allowing himself to be pulled up. 

"I do." Lance admits. "I'm-"

Suddenly, with no warning, a horn blows over the music. The drums stop and the dancing quells, voices morphing to hushed whispers. Keith turns in a flurry, one hand pushing Lance further behind his body. Through the crowd, past the fire and the long wooden tables holding food and drink, a new party is arriving.

And when Lance spots the leader, he feels his legs grow weak. All of a sudden he is seven years old and he is far from home. With no warning, he is very, very afraid. Silver hair hangs long and thick past the man's shoulders but regardless of the crowd's reaction, he is smiling. His eyes appear dark but Lance knows they are a fierce blue, the color as cold as the ice trailing at his feet. He must have come from the mountain, where the snow never stops falling.

"They've arrived." Someone whispers. "Lotor wasn't meant to return so soon-"

"Don't stop the festivities now!" The man, Lotor, calls.

Like a spell broken, the music slowly returns. Lance gathers himself close behind Keith's back, though he isn't defenseless. If he must, he can turn his small flame into a weapon, the heat able to sear and scorch.

Lotor walks with purpose through the crowd, his eyes quickly finding Keith before sticking. Lance touches a hand to Keith's lower back, feeling the skin and muscle tense the closer the man draws near. And when he's stopped just in front of them, his attention quickly finds Lance instead.

He tilts his head, silver hair sliding against his neck. "You're new."

"I am." Lance says, ignoring the look he receives from Keith.

Lotor smiles, "Have we met?" He narrows his eyes and in them, Lance sees a flicker of yellow. "You're very familiar-"

Keith steps between them, effectively blocking Lotor's view. When Keith speaks next, it is in their own language. Lance takes a step back and when neither of them seem to notice, he walks away completely. He makes his way through the crowd and politely declines food and drink, ignoring the way the Fae seem much more threatening than before. They've grown sharper. Meaner. As if Lotor's arrival has sparked something, they seem much more unhinged. 

"You can't leave now." Someone says, quickly taking hold of Lance's hand. He tries to pull away but they hold tighter, wide eyes growing shades darker. "We've only just begun to have fun."

"I'm not leaving." Lance tries to back away but he runs into someone else, their stature alarmingly tall. "I'm simply getting air."

"We are already outside."

"Yes." Someone else agrees, their voice taunting. "Air is all around us now. Wouldn't you like to stay with us? Wouldn't you like to dance with us forever?"

Breath growing ragged, Lance fears he'll give in. He is surrounded and overwhelmed and wishes he hadn't left Keith at all. He wishes he'd grabbed Keith's hand and simply stuck close, holding his ground and ignoring his fear instead of running away. All he does, he knows, is run away.

He lets his hand go lax in their grip, "I-"

"Shameful." The voice that interrupts sounds, if anything, very amused. "The lot of you should be ashamed for the treatment of your guest."

Lotor stalks through the small crowd with purpose, watching as the Fae flee. Though Lance doesn't wish to say it, he finds himself doing so in relief. "Thank you."

"Of course." Lotor hums, eyeing Lance's necklace. His eyes trail over the crescent shape, noticing the Skyflame and a moment later, the stone of Eterna. "The Fae can be very persistent, can't they?"

Now, Lance says nothing at all.

Lotor continues, "I hope you aren't leaving so soon. The moment I saw you, I felt we've known each other for a very long time. I'm curious."

"I'm afraid I don't know you." Lance lies, watching for anger to take place of the strange calm on Lotor's face. In any other Fae, his lie would be detected and met with malice.

Lotor only stares at him. Then, he smiles. "Of course not. My mistake." He turns his attention toward the mountains. "I can't know of every human stolen away. It's been quite some time since one of your kind found themselves here-"

"I wasn't stolen." Lance interrupts, "I came here willingly. Happily."

At this, Lotor looks genuinely shocked. "That's strange."

"Is it?" Lance counters, holding his head high.

Suddenly, Lotor leans down. He looks into Lance's face with appraisal, smelling of smoke and ice and something metallic; almost bloody. His eyes flicker, a slow creeping darkness overtaking his features. His jaw elongates, pupils slit- Lance shuts his own eyes.

When he opens them, Lotor is a few paces away.

He's hidden his face but his voice is clear, tone changing to one of dawning understanding. "There is a flame in you." He says, voice close to a whisper.

All at once, Lance recalls similar words from long ago.

I sense a flame in you, child.

Before Lance can question him, Lotor walks away. 

He doesn't see him again.

Days after Lance has returned to his own side of the woods, Keith has yet to stop apologizing. It comes in the form of sweet flowers on his doorstep in the morning and small carvings made from cherry wood, sometimes even glowing creatures in small twig entwined cages. Lance, of course, lets them go. But he's yet to see Keith again and he's had enough of it. He's tired of sleeping alone and he's tired of missing Keith's voice as he sings, especially when the wind howls a bit too loudly outside of his small house. Now, with determination, Lance walks to the forest and stares into the dark.

"I'm not a child anymore!" He calls, knowing that surely Keith can hear him. "I'm tired of waiting!"

A twig snaps.

Lance rolls his eyes, "I've told you, Keith. There is nothing you need to apologize for!"

Footsteps crunch on leaves, the familiar sound of a hand trailing on a tree trunk comforting and long awaited. Lance crosses his arms and waits, debating just charging into the forest and tugging Keith out himself.

But instead of Keith appearing ahead of him, he arrives from behind.

"Lance?"

Whipping around, Lance sees that Keith is drenched with water. His black hair sits heavy upon his head, the thick of his lashes still damp and dripping.

"What's happened to you?" Lance asks, feeling the forest creeping at his back. He refuses to look, instead hurriedly marching his way up the sloping hill.

Keith shrugs, "I went for a swim in your pond."

At this, Lance can't help but laugh. In the next moment, he finds himself sinking into Keith's arms, glad to feel the weight of him against his body. He takes a deep breath and trails a hand into Keith's hair, almost embarrassed at his desperation.

"I wasn't certain you wanted me around." Keith admits, always so blunt and honest.

Lance scoffs, "As much as I love your gifts, I prefer you. Always."

"It was a mistake bringing you to my realm." Keith says. "It only put you in danger."

When Lance leans away, he recalls the sounds from the forest. But instead of voicing his worries, he simply leans his forehead against Keith's. "I want to go back. I wasn't afraid."

"You don't have to lie to me."

Lance scrunches his nose, "It's more complicated than just fear. I was...confused. Overwhelmed." When Keith looks distraught, Lance quickly continues. "But I was still happy, Keith. I want to go back."

Eventually, after they've both returned to Lance's house and fallen into bed, Keith turns to him and runs a finger along his cheek. He brushes over Lance's mouth and places a kiss on the hollow of his throat, eliciting a shuddering sigh.

"Soon. When the dangers have passed and I'm sure you will be safe." Keith says, leg sliding over Lance's beneath the blankets. The last thing Lance hears before he falls asleep is Keith's promise. "We'll return soon."