A Million Roads to Nowhere

At Long Last

The party starts off at a steady pace, keeping their horses at an almost leisurely trot. The snow prevents them from speeding off the way that they would usually.

As they pass under the trees, powdery clumps of snowflakes fall through the branches, giving the illusion that it's snowing. White clouds of breath fill the air, indicators of the living in the winter's shroud. Everyone shivers despite the layers of clothing wrapped around their bodies.

Patrick wiggles his stiff fingers around in his gloves. The ring on his finger is cold and his hands are so swollen from the chilly air that he doubts he'll be able to take it off. He wonders if his horse is cold, too, and momentarily feels bad for it.

Nobody engages in any sort of conversation as they make their way through the trees. Snow sloshes under the horses' hooves. The snow has turned pink in areas where it is piled closer to the ground, giving the appearance of diluted blood. Patrick broke his finger in the winter once, remembers that the snow turned the same color it currently is.

A few birds flutter through the trees, disappearing into the leaves. Cracking ice can be heard in the distance. Patrick watches the snow sift through the pine needles, falling to the forest floor. His horse snorts, blowing mist into the air.

Patrick pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders, shivering.

At dusk, Clementine's men begin to converse with each other lowly under their breaths. They find a sheltered grove of trees where the group stops and ties up their horses. Everyone, save for Lena and Clementine, pitches in with setting up the canvas tents. They aren't much more than blankets propped up with tree branches, but they work well enough to create a space to sleep in.

Patrick gathers firewood to take to the center of the camp. He piles them around neatly, the way he was taught, and lights them using the supplies from his pack. He debates whether to try using magic, but decides this isn't the time to attempt it.

Clementine goes around to the tents and runs her fingers along the opening flaps, leaving a faint swirl of purple behind. Her handmaiden, who Patrick faintly remembers being called Isla, trails after her, tapping her fingers on the wooden poles as she goes.

"Enchanting the tents to be warm," William informs, coming up behind Patrick.

"They couldn't do that with these damned cloaks?"

William laughs. "I don't think they noticed we're cold. We're from the south. It's almost always snowing up at the Hoarfrost, hence the name."

"If I get any colder, I'll be bad company," Patrick says.

William's eyes scrunch up as he laughs again. "I think I could manage something..."

He tentatively touches the clasp holding Patrick's cloak together. Patrick notes that his nose crinkles slightly when he concentrates. It's sort of endearing, which Patrick figures is kind of a weird thing to be thinking about him.

Patrick's mother taught him the philosophy of 'if you keep it in your head, it's only a fleeting thought' and 'only saying it makes it real' so he doesn't mention it to William. At least he's been blessed with the talent of forethought.

Faint orange light, the color of the inside of the tangerines Patrick used to bring home during the summer, dances along William's fingertips. He pulls away and suddenly a wave of heat washes over Patrick. He pulls his cloak around him, feeling as if he's just stepped into the summer sun.

"Wow," Patrick breathes. "I actually have some feeling in my body again. I should have asked you to do this a while back." He gives William a genuine smile. "Thank you."