Not long after our midday rest, the bulging clouds finally release their torrent. But it is like nothing I expected.

It isn't rain, like Finlay initially said. Rain falls in droplets, heavy sheets that drench the earth, jewelling the leaves and making the grass slick. Hardly inviting, given my experience with the river. But this is a gentle swirl, drifting with listless intent, flakes light and pale and glittering with their chill.

Snow, Finlay calls it. And it is beautiful.

White already caps the very tips of the mountains, peeking just below the cloud, but once the snow begins it quickly cascades down the hillsides, a blanket knitted from barren patches. Soon, it is dappling the earth at our feet, then spreading as the flurry thickens. I spread my hands out, desperate to catch as many flakes as possible. They melt as they meet my skin, but leave behind a gentle, tingling layer. A more lasting dust whitens the shoulders of my tunic.

Finlay is less keen. He has pulled his cloak's hood over his face, and huddles under it, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest as he leans forward into the gusts. I don't understand why his pace slows so considerably. Mine seems to speed up, as if the snow lightens my step and propels me onward.

Snow crunches underneath my boots, a jolt of satisfaction coming with every step. Part of me wants to remove the shoes and let my toes sink into it, but I doubt Finlay would like that, and so instead I reach for the ledge sitting at my chest's height and run my hand through the snow gathering there. I'm surprised at the resistance it gives where it clumps together. It feels more like ice than it appears.

Now that I think more about it, I have heard of snow. But I certainly didn't picture it this way.

I'm so taken in admiring the white crystals, summoning cold pricks of flame to let them dance among it all, that I don't register the soft thump colliding with my back at first. But then the second whacks harder into my shoulder blades, and I whip around, snow scattering across my boots.

A few paces back, Finlay is bent over, hood skimming the ground as he scoops up snow in his palm. He clumps it into a hardened ball and I connect the dots.

"What was that for?" I ask.

Straightening, he flashes a smile my way, rolling the ball over to his other hand. "Snowball," he says with a shrug, as if that should explain everything.

Before I can respond, he sends the snowball flying my way. It shatters as it meets my chest.

I meet his gaze evenly, matching the challenge that glimmers in his eyes. "Alright." If that is the game, I'm not going to stand here and let him pummel me. Taking a few steps forward to widen our distance, I clamp both hands around a pile of snow further up the ledge and press it together. It is gentle, I'm coming to realise, and doesn't need much persuasion. I spin on my heels, clutching my freshly-made ball, and toss it at Finlay's hunched form.

At the last second, he dives aside, cloak tangling with his bag as he rolls over and comes up on his knees, a snowball in his hand. My own projectile lands uselessly in the snow where he was a moment ago.

"You'll need better aim than that, fire boy," he taunts, springing to his feet with surprising speed. I manage to duck the ball he tosses my way. It collapses onto the ledge, and I reach for its remains.

He is already preparing another. Forming snowball in hand, I dash down the path, snow spraying from my footsteps, and swing into the trees cowering behind the slope that rises to our right. My tunic catches on rough bark as I rush past the nearest tree and throw myself against its trunk, panting. The branches shake as I press my spine into the tree, releasing another shower that dapples my hair. A smile breaks out. My hand tremors as I clutch the snowball, jittery excitement fizzing in my veins.

I can't remember the last time I felt like this. The thrill of holding back a laugh, breathless and yet trying to remain silent, listening for the sound of movement close by while my heart pounds in my ears.

Above the sound, I catch the squelch of snow crushed under boots. Finlay is attempting to creep quietly, but the weather renders the notion impossible. I remain as still as I can.

"Nathan?" he calls. The playful tone wavers. He isn't entirely certain of my intent. All the better.

My fingers curl around a knot in the bark. Another second.

"Where--"

I spring out before he can finish, the snowball flying from my grasp and towards his voice. He hasn't the time to evade it. His eyes widen, their flash of shock coming a moment before snow meets his chin, disintegrating on impact. With a gasp, he staggers back, swiping at the white specs trickling into the gap between his cloak and jacket. His gaze sweeps widely before locking on me.

The instant it does, his expression sharpens, open mouth melding into a smirk. "You won't get away with that."

"Yes I will!" I yell, already dancing back behind the tree. Just in time, for he is quick to retaliate, the air stirring as a ball zips past my ear.

I laugh then, no longer able to keep it from bursting out of my chest. It is a tumbling river, unable to halt once I've released its flow, not even when my knees dig into my chest as I crouch down to collect more snow. One in each hand. He can't dodge two at once.

The scratch of his cloak catching on branches. Pushing haphazardly to my feet, I whip around in time to see him loom around the tree, his powdered weapon aimed and firing from his lowered hand. It thunks into my stomach with enough force to knock me over, though part of that could be due to my own stumbling momentum. My laugh lightens to a giggle as my back sinks into the snow, cold seeping through to my skin from beneath.

Scrambling backwards, I fail to avoid his second snowball, its shattered pieces cascading down my chest as the heels of my boots dig into the frozen earth. Finlay is out of ammunition. As he reaches down, I take the opportunity to rise, though the ground slides from under me and I have to grab for the nearest branch for support. Beneath the snow, the grass is sodden.

Somehow, I've managed to maintain both my snowballs, although the first has lost a small fraction to movement. I launch it towards Finlay as he looks up. Once again, he dives sideways, but I know the trick now and have adjusted accordingly. The ball slams into his side, stopping him before he can roll fully over, and the second I send for his shoulder. It hits the top of his head instead, snow spilling into his locks and paling their brown.

His head shoots up, surprised. The bag hangs awkwardly off his shoulder, the other strap having come loose, and his cloak is half-draped over his head. Paired with the chaotic tangle of his hair, he is satisfyingly bedraggled, and my triumphant smile clears the way for another laugh.

Leaning with my elbow resting on the branch, I meet his eyes as he stands, twirling a thread of black flame around my finger. "Don't mess with the Anathe, yes?"

Abruptly, he yanks his cloak downwards with so much force that I'm sure it will tear in his grip. His eyes reflect the icy sky. "Put that away." His tone is hard as the earth at our feet, the light layer of snow swept away.

I drop my arm, pushing back the fire. A phantom hand forces its way up my throat, smothering any dregs of laughter that remain. "I'm sorry."

"And don't call yourself that." Turning away, he gives his cloak a harsh shake, its edge bunched up in his fist.

I take a tentative step towards him, then stop, fiddling with my tunic's cuff. It is soaked, icy water trickling between my fingers as it oozes from the material. "I was only joking, Fin."

"I know. Just... don't." He is already striding back to the path, the words falling soft as the snow tumbling from his shoulders and yet with the same compacted nature of a snowball. "And stop messing about. We need to keep moving."

Trailing after him, I try to snatch back my smile from whatever pit it has fallen into. "You started it."

His boots strike stone at the same time he twists away, wordless. His hair is still speckled white, gleaming in the daylight that squeezes out from between the clouds. Only a few aimless flakes drift from above now, vanishing as soon as they hit the earth, though the skies above the mountains are still streaked grey. I let my gaze waver on them, watching the feeble shine of the sun glow in the snow's bright blanket, imagining how much colder it must be up on those peaks. A shiver traces my spine at the thought. It helps not to look at Finlay's turned back.

His voice reels me in regardless. "I told you to put that away."

My attention snaps to my hand. Flames have risen there without my call, weaving between my fingers. "Sorry," I murmur again, forcing them back. They slice at the skin as they sink. I take a shaky breath, feeling the realisation leak into my mind, regretting it as soon as it rests on my tongue.

"Although," I say slowly, tracing the hood of his cloak with my gaze, "I think it helps. Keeping the fire burning, I mean. I... I don't get tired as easily."

He sighs, and I catch a brief glimpse of his eyes before he retracts his glance. "I thought that might be the case."

The lack of elaboration sits heavily. "So..." I chew at my lip. "Can I keep it out?"

"Fine. But it goes away as soon as we stop."

I nod, then realise he isn't looking my way and add a hurried, "Okay." The flames come before I command them to. Focusing them at the centre of my palm, I slide my hand behind my back, clasping the other over it to conceal the fire as best I can. It makes sense that Finlay doesn't like it. He doesn't trust my ability to control them, to keep back the harm flickering within their depths, and I know it is justified. The least I can do is keep them somewhat hidden.

We continue down the path in tight silence. I watch Finlay's shoulders gradually relax, his stride becoming less stiff, though he continually rakes his fingers through his hair. I'm learning he does that frequently -- when thinking, or perhaps when nervous. It explains why his hair so much resembles the spiked shrubs at our feet. Snow falls away as he removes his hand.

"Nathan," he says eventually, the name lingering with the edge of a question not yet asked. He shifts left so I can walk closer to side by side with him, and I oblige, stumbling over an outcrop of rock. The fire rises, and I pass it to my right hand, twisting it over the tips of the longer grass.

"Yes?" I search the side of his face.

"What's your favourite colour?"

A laugh slips free from my chest. Such a trivial question, said with such deep thought. I snatch it back as his head dips, not wanting to disappoint him again. "I haven't considered it before."

He shoots a wry smile over at me. "For someone who spent the last however-many years on his own, you sure wasted your ample thinking time."

My lips quirk. "Yes, because when you're trapped in an underground cell, it is vital you decide what your favourite colour is."

"Just answer the question."

My eyes pass over the snow-patched hillsides, the glare of white against browns and paled greens. The castle's bright hallways flash at the back of my mind. "White?"

Finlay's laugh escapes so sharply that he nearly trips, a rounded stone coming loose at his toe. "The irony is perfect."

I shrug. "Well, what's yours?" My hand flicks at his trailing cloak. "Blue?"

"Yeah," he says, kicking the stone so that it skids forward and bounces off the rocks ahead. "Not hard to guess, right?" He chuckles again. "I can't believe yours is white."

My flame circles my hand, and I watch it blaze, darker against the snow. Maybe I'm incorrect, but this fresh white seems to capture everything the hope of freedom brings. The way it plays with the light, the unbroken sheet it creates as it rises upwards, out of reach of our footsteps. White is a blank canvas, the chance to start over.

The thought drags me onwards, a hook coiled around my legs to tug them faster and faster. I'm eager, I realise, to reach our destination, to see Ligari and let her help. Yet I am also aware of the greater expectation I pile on with every passing second. The longer this takes, the more time I have to hope.

We continue with few words spoken. As the clouds clear to make way for shafts of light hanging low in the sky, we pause beside another stream. Finlay retrieves a narrow spear from his bag, much to my surprise, and uses it to catch a pair of fish big enough to hang out of my palm. It takes him several attempts, but I'm still impressed by the speed of the capture. He seems at home out here, in the mountains and the wild. The scruffy look suits him, though that feels too odd a thing to say out loud.

I light my heated fire to cook the fish, enjoying the easier way I spark it to life the second time around. Once we've eaten and refilled our water skins we tackle the next section of the journey, the last and most difficult.

Finlay plans to carry on well into the night, but the rapid incline of the path quickly throws that away. It winds up to a peak submerged in clouds, the mountain he introduces as Mount Vasim. The forest in the Anathe's tale cannot be far from here, but I resist mentioning it. I don't want to see that cold look again.

We stop just as the stars emerge, speckling the sky as night unfolds. There is no fire this time.

"We'll set off early in the morning," Finlay reasons as he sets down his bag, settling with his head resting on it. "Alright? We should be at Ligari's by midday tomorrow."

My fire flares at the idea, hindering my attempt to calm it. I shove it below, delaying the prospect until morning.

Just as I lie back, Finlay's voice cracks the darkness. "It's green."

I open one eye. "What?"

"My favourite colour. It isn't blue." His boots beat at the grass. "It's green, like the summer leaves on an aspen tree."

Propping myself up, I peer at him, making out his twitching silhouette striped by grass blades. "Oh," I say carefully, not sure how to respond. His words are raw, torn at the edges, as if ripped from a place not often exposed.

"There's an aspen grove outside my home. I... used to sit in there with my mother." He laughs faintly. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

Grass shrinks away from my palm. I swallow, curling my hand over the emerging flames. Perhaps I don't need to reply. "There was a girl," I start, cautiously, my voice a bare breath, "who used to visit me in my cell. I like the light because... that's what she was to me, and I want to... recreate that." The final statement is too shaky to release. She would have liked this snow.

There is a soft pause, weighed on by lingering words. Then Finlay shifts. "Goodnight, Nathan. Sleep well."

"You too," I whisper, lying back. I don't have a chance to consider what just occurred. The moment my eyes close, the shadows swoop in. The image of the girl, hand wrapped around a bar, is there to illuminate my dreams.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Fun Fact: My favourite colour is purple. I don't have a meaningful reason for it, unlike my boys. Just thought you should know in case, uh, it comes in handy or something :D But I do think someone's favourite colour is a cool insight into their personality. Not that Finlay asking that was in any way planned until like a few minutes before I wrote it but still--

In fact, most of this chapter just sorta came out of nowhere, but I'm glad because look, actual fluff :DD My heart belongs with these boys. Can you be trash for a friendship arc--?

Don't worry, I'll balance out the niceness of this chapter with some angst next time. Because I know you're all dying for more--

- Pup