If you still want writing prompts: Dying fire or rising gales for Jason/Lorath?
These are perhaps a little self indulgent, but I had fun with them.
Thereâs not enough dry kindling to keep the fire going, and really, it isnât a wise choice to keep it lit anyway. The night is dark, without even the moon to cast judgement over their path, or the time they waste on rest. Howling carries on the wind, distant and forlorn through the trees. Thereâs no fear in that sound. Common wolves, too far away to hassle two men taking meagre shelter under an outcropping of moss coated stone. Too far away to take note of the fire that burns down long before the rain douses its frail embers and forces Lorath and the wanderer back into the recess of their shelter.
Lorath tugs his own cloak a little tighter against the damp air. The slope of their shelter would keep them dry, if not warm. Cold and damp arenât new, heâd been far less comfortable in his bed in the Fractured Peaks more than once. Had shivered through more than one snowstorm even in front of a roaring hearth with more than enough timber to see he wouldnât freeze. So itâs easy enough to ignore the discomfort now.
The last of the embers hiss pathetically in the damp before they surrender to the chill. If he knew no better, Lorath could mistake the vague shadows cast by old roots for the crags of a deep cavern. It was dark enough, cold enough, damp enough. Though the rain made the air clean in a way he couldnât dismiss. The labyrinth of Scosglenâs forests were just as claustrophobic as any subterranean maze in the pitch of a moonless storm.
Lorath frowns in the dark, drawn out of his thoughts by the quiet voice at his side. He hadnât really heard any of what Jason had said. Nor could he see the man, though he finds that a little surprising. The man was so bloody pale it seemed he should stand out. At least he wasnât chalk white like...Lorath snaps his focus back, and he doesnât really mean to snap out loud.
âWhat.â The word comes out annoyed, tired and harsh.
âYouâre shivering.â Jason says.
Maybe heâd already noted it, but Lorath is at least mostly certain that hadnât been what the sorcerer had said at first. Something claws at Lorathâs insides over the patience in the younger manâs tone anyway.
âAnd?â More annoyance he canât quite lock behind his teeth. It feels like something old and scarred is trying to rouse itself in his chest, with a warning like distant thunder.
Jason is quiet for several seconds. Long enough for Lorath to think that maybe heâd dropped it. Good. Let him sit in the dark and ignore the cold like heâd done too many nights before. Just leave him be, he thinks. Lorath almost misses the soft hum, but he canât miss the warm hand that finds his shoulder in the dark. Radiating more heat than their damp fire had.
That hand just rests there. Jason doesnât pull at him, doesnât try to move closer, and itâs so bloody difficult not to lean into it. Whatever was clawing at his insides seemed just as confused about whether it wanted to lean into the comfort of that warmth, or push it away.
Lorath grit his teeth in silence. His ear ached in the cold evening air, his knees ached, his back and his feet hurt. Everything seemed stiff or painful in the cold. His fingers stung even tucked up against his chest. His shoulder didnât hurt where the heat radiated from the sorcererâs hand, and he knew damn well what the man was doing. Heâd done it several times in the Steppes. Cooling or heating the air around himself to keep the desert from slowing him down. Doing the same for Lorath when he could stand to let him. Something heâd picked up after nearly freezing to death himself, most likely, or maybe heâd already known how to do that and it just had not been enough against a damn blizzard.
He canât see Jasonâs face in the dark, and thatâs fine. It means Jason canât see him either. Heâs not sure if that makes it easier to lean into the heat or not, but he doesnât have to say anything and that is easier. He canât fuck it up as easily if he just...No, thatâs not true. Heâs ruined plenty of things without a single word. He doesnât want to think about it. Like he hadnât wanted to think too hard about how Jason rarely seemed to get too warm or cold, and how readily he shared that.
Jason doesnât say anything either as he shifts closer. Tucking himself against Lorath in the dark and letting that warmth spread with familiar ease. Silently relieved heâs not been pushed away. Pleased that, in the dark at least, Lorath leans into him, face turned away from the cool, damp breeze. Buried against the soft fur around Jasonâs shoulders without any complaint.
The fireâs gone out and the damp air is clean, still cool between Jasonâs fingers at the back of his neck. With his eyes closed, it doesnât matter that the fireâs out. Heâs warm for the moment. Jason burns bright in a way the things in the dark donât see, in a way Lorath struggles to ignore. He isnât a dying fire like Lorath, carrying the embers of a dying order hoping to find some way to make sure that memory survives his own failings...He doesnât make the conscious choice to hold tighter, arms wrapped firm around living fire that spreads even when heâs not sure he wants those embers revived.
Shadows flicker in the periphery of his sight, dancing with the candle flames in old, familiar patterns. They still stretch long in the dark. Impatient fingers of ink that wait at the edges of warm pools of light. For the wax to run down and the wick to burn out, for the old man at his desk to give up for the time being.
The dark isnât the only thing at the edge of the candleâs light. Jason sits by the window watching the trees in the distance sway in the dim grey light outside. Lorath doesnât need to watch those silhouettes bend and tremble in the wind, he can hear the rapidly strengthening storm that will rattle the windows later. Buffeting everything with a piercing bite heâs glad not to be out in. Sometimes he wonders about the way the sorcerer stares out at the natural storms.
He always seems to know when the wind is going to pick up, when rain is coming, when the sky will be alight with flashes of lighting while the ground rolls with thunder. Lorath has some sense for it, not nearly so keen, but his scars itch or ache when the weather changes. Sometimes he can smell the change in the air, but it doesnât haunt him the way it seems to do for the man currently staring fixed at the bending trees.
Lorath resumes writing rather than turning fully to consider the reason for the fascination. Whatever Jason saw in the rising gales that would soon reach them, he could only guess at really. Appreciation for the raw power of it, maybe. It wasnât jealousy, though he had considered that once. The man would run with the storm when he could. Just as wild and destructive when it suited him to be. Heâd never once looked envious of it.
Jason sits at the window watching younger trees bend as though they might snap. Bowing in straining waves under the wind that howled with steadily increasing fervor against Lorathâs lonely little cabin. The fire was warm enough, even as it fluttered under the wind that caught down the flue, and it cast different shadows than the candles around Lorath. He can just make out the manâs reflection in the window, broken by the lattice work. The windows start to rattle in earnest with the wind, and Jason pushes himself up away from the black waves of the evergreens fluttering against the horizon.
It isnât terribly late in the afternoon yet, but the grey light wanes all the same in the storm. Leaving only the flickering gold cast by the fire and the candles, and something in that is more appealing than the storm. The faint fragrance of woodsmoke, the familiar scent of warm wax, fresh ink drying on paper. Something warmer and new heâd like to keep.
âDid you want something.â It isnât really a question, but Lorath doesnât sound annoyed. Thereâs something approaching amusement in the low timbre of his voice.
Jason smiles against the manâs neck and hums. Noncommittal. Unhelpful. As he stays half bent at the waist and tilts his face just enough to see what Lorath is writing. Notation about some protection against demonic power, not a new discovery, Jason doesnât think. Lorathâs hand is neat, easy enough to read, but focusing on the words solely is more effort than he cares to expend in the moment. So he asks instead, the words mumbled soft and warm against the bare skin he can reach.
âHm. Nosy thing, arenât you.â
âIf it were secret, youâd have shut the bookcase.â Or written in cipher, Jason thinks.
Lorath snorts and sets his quill aside. Tipping his head back enough to see loose scarlet hair, and little else with how close the sorcerer is. Jasonâs not wrong, heâd have taken at least some measures if he didnât want his writing seen.
The walls groan under the gales howling outside, and a distinctive chill finds its way in despite the fire. Reordering his notes can wait, Lorath thinks, for a few hours at least. They werenât like to go anywhere and he wouldnât forget. He shrugs against the weight draped carelessly over his shoulders. Stretching as he stands, and considers whether Jasonâs request was in earnest, which he suspects it was. It certainly doubled as an excuse to get close.
Outside, the wind continues to wail while Lorath goes over a few of the points heâd been organising. Explaining from the warmth of the furs on the bed, with Jason curled around him asking questions. Far more interested in Lorathâs voice than the raging of the elements.
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