by Rachel
Duo whirled in Hela's saddle, his violet eyes roiling. His sword was already in his hand. "Are you deaf?" he thundered. "Get out of here!"
Quatre heard the ring of steel as Lucrezia yanked her sword from its scabbard. Then he was plunging forward at an alarming speed, Sandrock carrying him just under the lion-thing's sweeping paw. He felt icicle-sharp claws rake the air above his head, and then they were galloping across the snow toward the palace, Quatre clinging desperately to the reindeer's neck.
When he glanced back, all he could see of the fight was the flash of swords and the spray of glitter as ice shattered. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.
"Sandrock," he half-sobbed, "we have to go back. We can't leave them."
The reindeer made no reply, but kept on until they were at the very door to the Snow Queen's palace. Then he spoke in a hard, flat voice: "There's nothing you can do against the Snow Queen's guardians, even if you were a warrior. All your friends can do is buy you time. So, hurry! Find your friend before it is too late."
He lowered his neck and Quatre slid off into the deep, powdery snow. He ran to the great door, but it was shut, and he could find no way of opening it. He pounded on it, and Sandrock kicked it with his hoofs, but it would not budge.
"Hurry, Quatre," Sandrock insisted again. "They're coming."
Quatre cast about frantically. The door had no knob to turn, no lock to break. There was no way in. "I can't!" he hissed.
Then he glanced up.
Above the door there was a small window, and through it a light shone wanly. Quatre's heart leaped.
At that instant Sandrock uttered a bell-like cry of challenge and whirled to face the creature that had pursued them. Quatre saw a blur of wings made of ice, a long, sharp beak, and cruel, curved talons. He shrank against the door.
The night seemed full of flying hoofs and sharp feathers, but Quatre felt strangely calm. I'm either going to die here, he thought, or I'm going to win.
He stared up at the window, and the light that burned fitfully, like a tiny cry for help.
I must get there. But how?
It came to him like a summer breeze, gentle but sure. 'The Prince, sang,' Mother Blomst said as she rocked gently in her chair by the fire, 'and the Keeper of the Winds heard him. He untied one of his many knots and sure enough, warm and sweet-smelling wind from the south filled the sails of the Prince's golden boat, and he began his journey across the sea…'
Across the sea or through the air, the point was the song.
Quatre opened his mouth and sang the first song that came to him, which happened to be the one he and his friends used to sing in the schoolyard during recess. It was a jumping, silly thing, but in Quatre's mind it conjured memories of unfrozen ponds full of frogs, and apple trees in blossom.
The words sprang from his lips and as they did the white puffs of his breath marched upward through the air to the little window, and coalesced into a staircase that looked delicate as vapor. When he put one foot on it, though, it held his weight.
He looked at Sandrock, still locked in mortal combat with the ice-griffin. It wrenched his heart to leave his friends in danger, but there was nothing he could do except try and save Trowa.
And he was losing time wavering.
Sometimes, maybe, now or never…
NOW, he thought, and hurried up the staircase toward the lighted window.
And now, at last, it is time to see what Trowa has been doing all this time.
Trowa's year was considerably less exciting than Quatre's. Time passed slowly in the Snow Queen's realm, because that was the way she wanted it. What, she demanded, was the point of rushing, scurrying, and scrambling toward moments when they did not last? There were no moments in her palace; day and night, under sunlight and starlight, everything was the same. Nothing changed.
Trowa was not bored. As far as he knew he had never had any home but the Snow Queen's palace, so he did not miss anything, not the changing seasons, not the feel of the earth beneath his feet, not the sound of free-running water, and not the faces of the people he had known in the village. When the Snow Queen was at home she sat in her throne carved out of crystal, and he sat at her feet and listened to her stories of the lands she had visited and cruelties and injustices she had witnessed. "Be glad that I brought you here, where hunger, fear, and pain can never touch you," she would tell him, and he would say nothing because the glass in his eye prevented him from being glad of anything.
When the Snow Queen was not at home, when she had gone away to sprinkle snow and frost over other lands, Trowa wandered her empty palace by himself. The walls of the palace were formed of drifted snow, and the windows and doors of the cutting winds. There were over a hundred rooms, some as small as rabbit warrens, some that yawned and stretched onward for miles, that Trowa could walk through for hours and still not find the opposite end. No tapestries adorned the walls; no soft carpets lined the floors. There were no fireplaces and consequently no fires. The only light came from feeble northern sunlight and the aurora, the only sound from his own echoing footfalls and the screaming of the wind through the mountains. Sometimes when he wandered Trowa felt as though he was walking through a dream, and wondered if his real body lay somewhere outside the Snow Queen's palace, and what it was like there, and how it would be if he ever woke. The thought frightened and confused him and he ran to the Snow Queen, not knowing what he sought from her, but certain that whatever it was he needed, she was the only one who could give it to him.
To comfort him or to occupy him in her absence, the Snow Queen gave him a magic puzzle made out of sharp, flat pieces of ice. Trowa's fingers were artistic and clever and he could make any number of intricate shapes out of the pieces. "But," said the Snow Queen, "if you can form your real name, you can stay with me forever and never have to worry about waking."
Trowa tried to make the word he wanted out of the pieces, but no matter how he fitted them together, took them apart, and rearranged them, he could not do it. Time after time he tried, under pallid daylight and the brilliant light from the aurora. He worked until his fingers were almost blue with cold and the skin around his nails began to crack and bleed. Still the word would not come. He begged the Snow Queen for the answer, but she could not--or would not--help him. The puzzle filled his days as his wanderings had at first, and it was not long before he lost track of their passage.
It was thus that Quatre found him on a night that to Trowa was no different from the one before, or the one before that, or all the nights that he could remember. He was sitting alone in the great hall that went on for miles in all four directions, bent over the puzzle, his brow furrowed, his mouth set in a firm line. He was so deep in concentration that not an eyelash twitched and he seemed no more alive than the ice sculptures that dotted the Snow Queen's garden.
He looked up at the sound of footfalls, however, for the Snow Queen made no sound when she walked. He stared at the apparition for a long time, not knowing what to make of it at first. As far as he knew, he had never seen another human being before in his life. And this had to be another human being, not a reflection; the apparition's hair was pale as sunlight, his eyes round and bluer than ice, nothing like Trowa's. Fear shook him. If this was another human being, his dream must be breaking up. He was running out of time. He bent back to his task.
Quatre stared at Trowa. His heart had leaped for joy when he finally caught sight of the other boy, after searching the winding, empty corridors for what seemed like hours. It came careening back into his chest and the blood in his veins chilled when Trowa barely glanced up. He cried out in real pain when the long dark lashes lowered again in dismissal.
What had he expected? Quatre had found Trowa, but was still a stranger to him. Nevertheless, he held his breaking heart together, and went and knelt beside the other boy. Trowa did not look up. He flinched when Quatre touched his shoulder lightly.
"Trowa," he said gently, "it's me. It's Quatre. I've come to get you. Please look up at me."
Trowa slipped away from him, as easily as though he were made of ice, and would not lift his head.
"Trowa," Quatre tried again, more desperately this time, as the shadows in the great hall roiled and hissed with the Snow Queen's magic. "Trowa, please. I'm your friend and I've come such a long way to find you because I need you. We all need you--Mother Blomst, Katerina, our friends… We all need you and miss you so terribly. So I've come looking for you. I've sought you for so long and in ways I never even knew existed." He extended his hand again, but let it hang in the air. He was afraid to touch the other boy, afraid that he would shrink from his touch again. "PLEASE, Trowa. It's freezing, here. Your hands look so cold. Where's your jacket? And the scarf and hat that Mother Blomst knit for you? Where are they?"
"I don't know you," the other boy muttered.
Quatre's heart shattered. "Trowa!" he cried. "You DO know me, you do! You just don't remember. I know what's wrong with you, but I don't know what to do. Please try to remember. PLEASE." No longer caring, he gripped the other boy's shoulders and shook him. "Please!"
"Get away from me!" Trowa pushed him away, not violently, but with enough force to send him stumbling back a few feet. He glanced up at him then, and his gaze was shallow, but full of scorn. "You're bothering me, and I'm running out of time."
Quatre wiped his eyes on his sleeve and frowned at the flat pieces of ice on the floor. They looked like puzzle pieces, but they were the same color, so he could not imagine what picture they were meant to form. Sick with fear and sorrow, but unwilling to give up, he decided to switch tactics. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"It's a puzzle," Trowa said. He picked up one piece and moved it to another place on the floor, then gazed at it thoughtfully for a moment before continuing: "It's supposed to spell out a word and if I can figure it out, I can stay here forever."
Quatre shivered. "What word?"
"My name."
"Your name is Trowa Blomst."
"My real name."
Very softly: "Does the Snow Queen know your real name?"
No reply.
Again, so softly: "Does the Snow Queen know your real name…and won't tell it to you? She doesn't love you, not the way--not the way we do. Mother Blomst found you, it's true, but she gave you a name because she loves you. You're like a--no, you ARE her son. And Katerina's brother. And my friend. I know you don't believe me, but try."
Low and threatening: "Go away."
"No, I won't."
So Quatre sat, and Trowa continued to think, and while he did Quatre spoke calmly about their home and the people there. "Do you remember the pond by Father Maxwell's cottage? Do you remember that time we caught all those frogs and put them in Katerina's bath? We both thought she'd scream like a banshee, but she didn't. She brought them all back to the pond and the next day she put those spiders in your lunchbox and YOU screamed like a banshee." [1] He smiled at the memory. Trowa did not move. He sighed. "Do you remember that enormous apple tree that used to grow in Farmer Noventa's orchard before it got sick and had to be cut down? Remember the time I tried to climb all the way to the top so I could see what our village looked like from high up. There were flowers in the tree and I kept shaking the petals down. You said it was like snow in summer. I was almost to the top when the branch beneath me snapped and I fell. You caught me. Don't you remember? I broke your arm, don't you remember that? What about the time my father was late coming home because of a hurricane, and I was so worried? You stayed up with me all night, even after I fell asleep, and when I woke up you were still there."
"You talk a lot, and you tell weird stories," Trowa said when Quatre paused to draw breath.
"I guess I do. But it's your life, and mine, too. It's strange," he said as, encouraged by Trowa's attentiveness, he slid closer to the other boy, "I can hardly remember my life before I met you. I know that I was very sad and lonely, but it seems so long ago. If my life were a book, it would be the table of contents, not even the prologue. Your story is mine, too. You're like my blood. We're wrapped up together in this life, so I can't be anywhere except with you, so I'm not leaving."
Trowa looked up, then, and Quatre stopped a mere two feet from him. Trowa's eyes were hard and cloudy as jade, but something in them flickered. Not a light, exactly. More of a stirring, like rose leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. Quatre held his breath.
But the flicker of recognition died, as quickly as a candle flame in high wind. Trowa's glance chilled and his lips drew back in a sneer. "You are an ugly person," he spat, "and you lie."
Quatre cried out again, in anguish, and grabbed at the other boy's arm. "I'm not lying!" he shouted. "I'm telling you who you are! The Snow Queen is telling you lies and a demon's magic makes you believe her!"
Trowa shook him off. "Don't touch me!"
They were both on their feet, glaring at each other over the Snow Queen's puzzle.
The puzzle…
Quatre stomped on the ice shards, grinding them to powder beneath the heel of his boot. "Your name," he said, "is Trowa. And you don't belong to her."
Trowa hit him across the mouth, knocking him flat. The blow came like a thunderclap. For an instant Quatre felt, heard, and saw nothing. Then slowly his senses came back to him, and he tasted blood and winced when he touched the tip of his tongue to his cut lip. Defeated and despairing, he crawled slowly, painfully to his knees. His body felt so light, as though everything inside him had burned up, and all that was left were ashes.
When he turned around he saw that Trowa was once again kneeling on the floor, bent over the powdery remains of the Snow Queen's puzzle. Now he'll never know his real name, Quatre thought almost giddily. Neither of them.
I have to say goodbye, now.
He did not feel his body as he went to kneel by Trowa, one last time. The other boy looked up when he approached, and he looked angry.
"Look what you've done," he said in a dead voice. "Now I'll never know."
"I know," Quatre said, "and I'm so sorry." He could not feel his own heartbeat and wondered if he had died without noticing. I can't die until I do this, though. He swallowed hard. "Trowa," he said, "I'm going to touch you again. I'm not going to--to do anything. Just let me touch you."
Trowa did not move, only regarded him stonily, so Quatre reached out and took his pale face between his hands. How cold his skin felt! Cold and hard like ice, not at all like living flesh. The tears in Quatre's eyes scalding by comparison. Gently he tilted Trowa's face up and lowered his lips to his frozen cheek. He did not kiss him, though. He inhaled slowly, drawing the other boy's scent into his lungs and holding it there as long as he could. When his vision began to darken he expelled the breath reluctantly, drew another, and then whispered, "I'm going to leave you, now, because I don't know how to break the spell that holds you and I couldn't bear to cause you any more unhappiness. But you'll always be with me wherever I go, and whatever I do. I'll never forget you, and I'll be waiting if you should remember. You'll always be my best friend. I'll love you forever." He kissed him on the cheek and on the brow. Then he stood, turned, and began to walk away.
"Quatre."
He stopped.
"Quatre," the broken voice said again, "is that you? I can hardly see, I…"
Quatre turned again and there sat Trowa, looking up at him, deathly pale and trembling violently with cold. A tear sparkled as it rolled slowly down his cheek. A single tear, but it carried the little sliver of the demon's mirror out of his eye. It fell to the floor where it was crushed an instant later by Quatre's boot as he rushed to throw his arms around Trowa and hold him close.
"I'm cold," Trowa muttered into Quatre's neck. "Why am I so cold?"
Quatre took his coat off and wrapped it around Trowa's thin shoulders. He rubbed his limbs, his face and ears, but it was not enough. He clung to Quatre, shaking and gasping in a drowning voice, "I'm so cold, Quatre, please don't leave me, I'm freezing. My heart…" He gasped. "It hurts." A second tear slid down his cheek, and then another and another. Quatre kissed them as they fell. Then he kissed his brow, his ears, his eyelids, and each blue, bleeding finger. Wherever his lips touched him, color blossomed in his skin, and gradually the tremors that rocked his slender frame eased. He lay limp in Quatre's arms and Quatre held him tightly and wept--out of joy but also out of sheer exhaustion.
By and by Trowa's eyes opened and he stared up at Quatre uncertainly. "Where are we?" he whispered.
"In the palace of the Snow Queen."
"I'm not dreaming?"
Quatre shook his head, smoothed the hair out of his face, and smiled down into eyes that saw him and knew him. "You've been here a long time, but I finally found you." Tears blurred his vision, but he wiped them away with the back of his hand. "Everything's going to be all right, now. She has no power over you, not anymore."
Trowa frowned and reached up to touch the scar on Quatre's cheek. "This is new."
"Yes."
"Someone hurt you?"
Quatre nodded. "It's all right, though," he assured him, when Trowa's eyes darkened. He almost laughed; it was the same stubborn, fiercely protective look Trowa wore whenever he caught the older village boys teasing Quatre. "It was a long time ago."
"And this?" He touched Quatre's lip, which was still bleeding. His frown deepened. "I seem to remember… No…" His eyes widened with alarm. "Quatre, did I…?"
"No." Quatre took his hand and held it tightly. "It's nothing. Trowa, how much do you remember?"
Trowa was quiet for a moment, remembering, or trying to. His fine dark eyebrows drew together in consternation. "Not much," he admitted, finally. "No, I do remember some things, but it all seems like a dream, now. I remember being back in the village. But everything seemed so distorted and ugly. I didn't recognize anyone. I was frightened. That part doesn't seem real, because how could I ever be afraid of you?" He shook his head. "I remember flying here in a sledge with a woman. I remember the moon looking enormous. Then there were corridors and endless rooms and I couldn't find my way out of them and it was always so cold and dark. There was something I was trying to remember, but I couldn't. And then you were here and I could ALMOST hear what you were saying, but… The words sounded all wrong. It was like there was another voice whispering in my ear, telling me that you were lying. I wanted to believe you, but I couldn't make your words sound right, not until…" He broke off and shuddered deeply.
Quatre stroked his hand. "Until what?" he pressed, although he thought he knew. "What did I say that you heard? Was it that I love you?"
"Yes." Trowa's wonderment was plain. "I heard that as clearly as I hear you, now. Why is that, when I couldn't hear anything else?"
"Maybe some things can't be distorted, no matter who makes the glass. I really do love you. That's why I had to come. We can talk about it later, though." Yes, later he could tell Trowa again how much he loved him and what he had gone through to find him, and ask if he could ever love him back. Now there was no time. The Snow Queen could come upon them at any moment, and he was anxious to learn the fate of the friends he had left outside. He kissed Trowa one more time upon the brow, then took off his scarf, sliced it in half with the knife that Lucrezia had given him, and used the pieces to bandage Trowa's thin, cold hands.
They rose to their feet. Quatre held out his hand, and Trowa took it and squeezed it and together they walked back through the long, empty corridors to the front door. When they got there they found the Snow Queen barring their exit. She was very tall and as beautiful as a snowflake in her long white robes and with her long dark tresses that fell about her shoulders like a waterfall by night.
Quatre was not afraid. He gripped Trowa's hand more firmly in his own and said boldly, "He doesn't belong to you."
"He doesn't belong to you, either," said the Snow Queen.
"But you can't keep him here against his will!"
"I know." The Snow Queen's dark, dark green eyes were sad and for a brief moment she looked like a human woman. "I have no power over free will. Go; I will not hinder you. I wanted only to say goodbye." The words sounded strange coming from her lips, which were red as holly berries and neither frowned nor smiled.
"Lady," Trowa said, "I don't think that I will ever see you again."
She lifted a hand, as though she meant to touch his face, but she let it fall to her side again. "No, you won't, my child. But I might see you when the snow falls thickly, if you live in a cold country."
A great gust of wind filled the hall then, and when it subsided she was gone.
Quatre stared at the space where she had been, and then at Trowa. "Why did she call you 'my child'?"
"Let's go," was all that he said.
The door swung open before them and hand in hand they walked from the Snow Queen's palace.
[1] When my brothers were younger they were terribly afraid of spiders. I conquered my own fear just so I could terrify them. Wasn't I wicked? ^__^
To be continued...