Work Text:
Therion had always, always hated the cold.
His hands rub up and down his arms in a futile attempt to warm them, knees hugged tightly to his chest as he leaned against the wall of the cavern the travelling group had taken shelter in. They had stopped in Stillsnow to buy warmer clothes and blankets along with the usual supplies on their way to Northreach, but they’re still not enough. Despite the extra layers of wool and fur, Therion still shivers, his teeth still clatter uncontrollably, and his entire body still curls in on itself, desperate to get away from the cold. He’s still miserable .
“Do you need an extra blanket?” a woman’s voice, as soft and gentle as its owner, asks in hushed tones beside him.
“I’m fine.” He’s not fine, and there’s no real reason to refuse, but he has his pride if nothing else, gods damn him. “Worry about yourself.”
Ophilia smiles, but there’s still concern in her eyes. “I can do both easily enough.” She scoots a little closer to him, almost bumping against his shoulder, but hesitates just before making contact. She knows -- they all do, by now -- that he prefers to keep his distance from others. Over the past months travelling together, that distance had begun to shrink, bit by bit, inch by inch, but the gap hadn’t fully closed. Not yet.
And after Wellspring, that gap seemed an endless, yawning chasm.
Therion sinks his face further into his collar, his scarf covering all the way up to his nose. His gaze fixes itself on the small campfire crackling in front of him, the one all eight of them spread their bedrolls around for extra warmth and that Ophilia was currently in charge of tending, at least for the next hour or so. H’aanit was supposed to take the next shift until dawn, but as Therion had woken early, he’d figured he could let her rest. He’d said the same to Ophilia, but she had refused, insisting on fulfilling her responsibility to the group. Besides, she’d said, this way they could both have some company.
Both of them knew why he’d woken up. Both of them said nothing.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, broken only by the sounds of the burning logs, the howling of the wind outside, and the breathing of their companions. Ophilia idly pokes at the fire, causing a few embers still clinging to the wood to spring to life. She hums her approval, letting her hands linger by the flames in order to warm them. Therion, in turn, lets out a huff and inches his boots a little closer.
“The cold doesn’t seem to bother you at all,” he observes dryly. Even on their treks through the snow and the blizzards, where everyone else bent against the wind and huddled beneath their cloaks, Ophilia had remained steady and secure. While certainly not immune to the cold or the treacherous landscape, her feet never slipped on the ice the way theirs did, never seemed to shiver quite as much. “Suppose you’re used to the weather here. Being your home, and all.”
“You’d be surprised how quickly one can get un -used to it, after spending so much time away.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough.”
Still, Ophilia hums pensively, resting a hand against her chin as she ponders his words. “Even before we met, you had traveled on your own for quite some time, hadn’t you, Therion?” He nods, eyeing her warily. For a second he dreads what she might be getting at, but she continues in a casual tone. “Hadn’t you ever been in the Frostlands before?”
“Once or twice. Never if I could avoid it.”
“Why’s that?”
“The cold,” he sums up flatly, gesturing as if it was so stupidly obvious as to not need questioning. “Winter’s hard no matter where you are, when you don’t have a home to go back to. So why the hell would I want to spend any time up here, where it’s winter year-round?”
Ophilia goes very quiet.
Therion bites his lip, and turns away. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid thing to say. He’s so used to viewing his own life matter-of-factly, he forgets that other people don’t see growing up on the streets as ‘just the way things are’. Nothing to complain or make a fuss about. Dwelling on the past never helps in a life where you have to focus on keeping one foot in front of the other, in a trade where a moment’s hesitation can mean spending the night in a gaol, or worse. He’s used to it. He’s used to moving forward. To focus on survival.
But not everyone is.
“... You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” Ophilia murmurs, and Therion hears the sympathy in her voice. Heavy, sticky, cloyingly sweet, enough to make him feel sick to his stomach. His lips curl into a grimace, and he has to stop himself from snarling in disgust. He doesn’t need her sympathy, her pity . Her or anyone else’s. Pity isn’t what kept him alive all those years. Pity isn’t what got him to where he is now. Pity has never helped him before. Why should he accept it now?
“I don’t--”
“But, you know,” she cuts him off, tilting her head to the side as she continued, “I never thought of winter as being cold.” The look of bewilderment he gives her must have been quite amusing, because she giggles in response. Light pools in her eyes as she turns towards the fire again, and her features soften. For a moment, she’s entranced, gone a million miles away to somewhere Therion couldn’t follow. Then her lips part, and she speaks again.
“For me, winter is the warmest season of all.”
Her fingers curl around the hem of her cloak, pulling the fabric a little tighter over her shoulders. “Most people think of winter, and they think of snow, of blizzards, of shivering in the cold. There’s that too, of course. But for me, when I think of winter, I think of warmth. The warmth of sitting by a fire, like this. Of being huddled under blankets while the storms rage outside, and feeling safe. Of blowing into your hands to keep your fingers from freezing. I think of cradling a cup of tea, or hot chocolate when I was younger, and letting it warm me to my bones.
“Most importantly, I think of people.” Something flashes in her eyes, something he can’t quite catch. What he does catch is her lower lip quivering, so slightly that Therion’s not sure if he’s imagining it.
“I think of the Archbi-- of Father, and of Lianna, welcoming me into their home with open arms. I think of the other members of the clergy and how tirelessly they work to ensure no one in town goes hungry or cold when we can provide shelter and food. I think of the people of Flamesgrace, and the kindness they always showed me. The children laughing and playing in the snow, their faces bright and full of life. I think of sharing a hot meal with people dear to me. I think of the warmth in the embrace of a friend, or in holding someone’s hand. Of the warmth in people's smiles.”
Ophilia brings her hands to her chest, her absent gaze still following the flicker of the flames. She cups them together, fingers curling in on themselves, as if she’s cradling something important. Her lips form a smile of their own, a smile that exudes kindness, gentle and warm.
Warm.
Six sleeping figures lie around them, and Therion’s gaze falls on each of them in turn.
Tressa was closest, on Ophelia’s other side. Her smiles were more often not smiles at all but grins, burning with an energy and excitement that lights up her entire face. She’s as tempestuous as the sea that crashes on the shores she hails from, a force of nature that no one could hope to stop or contain. Tressa smiles with her entire being, letting her body and voice convey every last bit of a joy so immense that a mere curl of the lips could never hope to be enough for.
Olberic lies not two feet from her, his broad frame rising and falling in time with his snores. Stoic and guarded, hardened from his years of service as a knight, Olberic barely smiled when they first began traveling together. Over the weeks and months he began to loosen up, and now smiles come far more easily to him. His laugh is low and heavy, the kind of sound that reverberates in his chest and through the room, and his smile is a smoldering kind of warm, like hot embers.
Propped up against the wall opposite Therion is H’aanit, her head drooping slightly to her right side as she slept, hand resting on Linde curled up on her lap. Of the eight of them, H’aanit spoke the least, but that wasn’t to say she was cold or unfriendly. Actions speak louder than words, and H’aanit speaks best with her axe protecting the rest of them in battle, with her bow landing them a nice couple of rabbits or even the odd boar for dinner, and with her keen senses spotting and pointing out danger lurking in places the others would never know to look. H’aanit smiles with her eyes, eyes filled with wisdom and compassion beyond her years, eyes that have guided them through it all, and kept them safe.
Right next to H’aanit, leaning on her shoulder and huddled beneath the same blankets, is Primrose. She’s the one most similar to Therion, in the worst respects, and the opposite of H’aanit. Primrose is all smiles, all undulating movements and batting eyelashes, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Her real smiles are few and far between, though they last a little longer each time. They’re delicate and graceful, much like the flower she shares a namesake with; other times they’re fierce, ablaze with the same determination and quiet dignity that marks her as a cut above the rest.
Cyrus shivers under his blankets some few feet away, so covered up that only his mat of dark hair is visible. Of all his seven fellow travelers, Therion finds Cyrus the most exasperating, second only to Tressa when she gets a little too carried away in admonishing him for being a thief. He’s lost count of the amount of times he’s been forced to grab Cyrus’ collar to keep him from tumbling off a cliff, all because he was too absorbed in some book or another. Or the times he’s had to double back because they’d noticed he wasn’t following the group anymore, only to find him enthralled in conversation with some poor stranger who most definitely had not signed up for one of his lectures. But as annoying as he could be, as long-winded and headache-inducing as his lectures are, Cyrus smiles through it all, his passion and enthusiasm shining through in everything he does, like an ever-burning candle.
And then… And then there’s Alfyn.
Alfyn, the first companion he’d met on his journey. The one who had insisted on helping him the second he saw Therion stumble into Clearbrook with an injured leg, and insisted on tagging along with him afterwards. Alfyn, without whom Therion never would have bothered helping the others, would have slipped right past them and their troubles without a second thought beyond what valuables he might find in their pockets. Alfyn, who trusts everyone so completely from the moment he meets them, that you'd have to actively try not to find him endearing.
Alfyn, who ever since Wellspring and Darius has pointedly refused to leave Therion’s side. Even if he won't say it in as many words, Therion notices the little things. How he lingers, staying as close as he dares without pushing Therion's boundaries. How he sneaks quick glances over at him every now and then when he thinks Therion isn't looking. How he sets his bedroll next to his, night after night. How even though his eyes are tinged with worry, he still makes an effort to smile for him.
Alfyn is like the sun, and his smile is the warmest of them all.
When Therion finally turns back to Ophilia, she’s clearly been watching him for a while. Her expression is patient, contemplative, and more than a little apologetic.
“I know this must all sound pretty silly to you,” she says with a nervous chuckle. She has her knees up to her chest now, hugging them tightly; she’s far more tense, more guarded. It hits him that she’s been waiting for a response for several minutes, and growing more anxious by the second. Ah… oops. But he has no reply for her, and she clearly has more to say, so Therion keeps silent. Ophilia bites her lip and hesitates, fidgeting a little with the tips of her glove.
“Winter is harsh, bitter, and cold for many people. I’m not so naive as to think otherwise. And I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds, but…” She stops for a moment, taking a deep breath. When she smiles at him next, there’s a bittersweet tenderness to it that makes his chest ache. “... I hope, someday, you can find the warmth in it, too.”
Therion says nothing. The silence is heavy and poignant in the wake of her words, and he dare not break it. His chest starts screaming for air, and he realises he’s been holding his breath. It comes out in a sigh, and he cranes his neck to stare at the cavern ceiling.
She starts speaking again before he has a chance to, her voice high and cracking. “I-I’m so sorry. I said too much, didn’t I? You were just talking about hating the cold, and here I am prattling on about-- about silly sentimentality, and--”
“... Ophilia.”
“Y-Y-Yes?” Her response is an anxious squeak.
“I changed my mind. I think I will take that extra blanket, after all.” Therion keeps his face stoic as he glances at her from the corner of his eye, though he finds that difficult once he sees the shock and confusion plastered all over hers. He turns his head and nods in H’aanit and Primrose direction, and though it takes her a second, realisation dawns on Ophilia’s face.
She blinks at him, as if unsure whether she’s reached the correct conclusion. “A-Are you, um… Are you sure?”
“Mmm.”
Very slowly and deliberately, she edges closer to him. Her eyes constantly dart back to his face, as if to gauge his reaction with every fraction of an inch crossed. Her arm brushes up against his, and she squirms a little until she finds a position she’s comfortable with. Then she unfurls her blanket, and drapes it over them both.
He can feel her breathing, the way it makes her body rise and fall as air passes through her lungs. Her head leans so close to his shoulder that a few strands of her hair tickle his face. Having someone this close is an odd sensation; strange and foreign, yet faintly familiar, from some long-forgotten memory. It’s a little awkward, perhaps, but not unpleasant.
Therion closes his eyes, allowing himself to lean against her in kind. Just for tonight, just for a moment, there is no gap. No distance between himself and others, no barrier, no walls. No insurmountable chasm.
Just for this moment, in the dead of a freezing winter night, Therion feels warm.