AN: Bonjour all! Here is my first Snowbarry fic, set in an alternate universe of royalties and fairy tales. I do hope my fellow SB shippers will appreciate this as much as I do. The dynamic of Caitlin and Barry's relationship is so great that it could fit into any timeline or universe. Anyway, reviews, follows and plain simple appreciation is greatly taken into heart. ❤️ Do leave a review after reading, and tell me how you want the story to go :)
Without further ado, here is chapter one.
Caitlin is cold.
It's not a feeling that's foreign to her—living in a castle surrounded by eternal chill and frost is something that has grown on her, or rather, innate to her being. Years of winter, unyielding to the world moving in summers and autumns around it, has taught Caitlin nothing but the feeling of coldness, seeping into her bones and into her being.
So it's an unwelcome surprise for her to feel cold, as she steps onto the slippery ground, the cold from the ice emanating and chilling the tops of her feet, encased in woollen boots. The air pushes her forward, with a bite that others would fear. But Caitlin pays it no mind, and continues to trudge towards the winter that she has known for so long.
The sight is as familiar as the cold: a vast expanse of a forest of thin, dead trees frosted with snow and the ground crystalline and firm under the crackle of boots and padded shoes. She takes four steps forward, slowly, with control, as not to slip, and suddenly her centre of gravity shifts.
Caitlin does not know it, but from that moment forward, her world will change.
The first sight she sees is a scarlet pool of blood, quickly spreading on the smooth canvas of ice that it lays upon. Next follows the fallen sword, a sterling thing of beauty, caked with blood on the handles and the once-shiny blade. The sight that succeeds is one that ultimately shocks her, and against her will and carefully constructed common sense, pushes her forward, the clank of her boots loud and reverberating against the stillness of the forest.
A man lies on his right side, with blood pooling underneath him. His left hand awkwardly hovers over a region on his right, and with fearful, wide eyes, Caitlin notes that the source of blood comes from the man lying on the cold, hard forest ground. He is dressed in robes and clothing of scarlet shade, as well as his high riding boots. Caitlin sees the fallen sword on the ground and realises that the sword must be his, but perhaps not the blood on it. She reaches out for the man, both afraid to find a breath and not, and with slow, hesitant fingers, she presses her fingers against the man's smooth neck, and finds a pulse there. Slow, but defiant, as if it were fighting the final frontier against death.
With no time to waste, Caitlin slides an arm underneath the man's torso, and hoists him up despite the heaviness brought on by his body and armour. He does not grunt or offer a breath, and Caitlin is genuinely terrified at the thought of this man dying in her arms. Fuelled by fear and adrenaline, she carries him back to her horse, and slings him over the short body, careful not to let him or any of his limbs crash against the young filly's body. The man lays in stillness, and Caitlin realises that time has to stop in order for him to heal. She coaxes the young filly to move forward with a soothing, calming voice, and she succeeds.
They make it into the castle double the time it took for Caitlin to move out of it, and with every step they make, Caitlin looks fearfully at the man splayed on the filly's back, still unmoving, and heaving breaths that could either mean death or survival. Once they cross the threshold, she hoists him up again, all of his weight crashing on hers, and Caitlin carefully steps along with him, careful not to drag him along like some young girl's rag doll.
They begin to ascend the stairs and after an immeasurable amount of time, make it into one of the vacant rooms of the palace. It's bare, save for a huge bed with a canopy of plain ivory, and Caitlin is glad that it's immaculately clean. She lays his body on the bed, from the head to both of his heavy feet with care and tact. For once, the man ushers a grunt out of his frostbitten lips, and Caitlin revels in the sound, sighing with relief.
Caitlin moves over him, her dark auburn curls providing a shadow over the man's head, and carefully checks any damages on his head. She tactfully presses and massages until a strong grip on her wrist shakes her and she finds herself looking in the man's eyes.
They're green as emeralds and tinted with specks of hazel, and she finds herself mesmerised and a little stunned, as if this were the first time she did such a thing, and really, it was. His eyes are altogether a pleasant sight and a beautiful distraction, framed by long, girlish lashes and dictates a masculine, all-consuming stare.
For a while, all Caitlin does is stare at those beautiful eyes, the fingers on his head numb and unmoving, and she waits for a pin to drop, to shake her out of her reverie. But the room is interminably silent, until a voice speaks out of it.
"Angel," the voice whispers, rash and raspy but gentle all the same, and Caitlin sees that his lips have moved to create the sound, and all she does is look at him and wait for him to say something else. Realising that he must require a response, she finally opens her mouth and says, "No, I am no angel," with unmistakable firmness but a waver in it, no doubt coming from the feelings that shook her up ever since staring into the man's emerald gaze.
The man stares at her, seemingly gifting her with a gaze probing and loving at the same time, and she is stunned by the next few words he rasps. "My…. angel," he says, and with a surefire certainty that Caitlin hasn't seen in anyone else, he presses his cold lips against her own.
Caitlin is shocked and unmoving, and suddenly the man staggers back onto his pillow, his eyes closing and those lashes long against his smooth cheek.
It was a short surprise, but a surprise nonetheless, and Caitlin almost slaps herself for wanting to close her eyes and feel the warmth only their lips share. She shakes her head and looks at the man's face, cherub-like, in consciousness and without, and Caitlin fights for her steely resolve until she finds it.
This man is trouble. Do not attach yourself.
With weak knees, she descends the stairs and goes into the infantry and searches for the tools and medicine she needs for his healing, and once she has her arms full, returns to the man's side. With the ease of an expert and the eye of a marksman, she spots and covers in concoctions and bandages every wound that has made it into his body, and deftly stops the bleeding in the largest wound at his right side, pressing a clean cloth firmly and securing it with swathes of gauze. She presses more firmly, exerting greater pressure, and finds that it has ceased bleeding, albeit for no permanence. Caitlin notes that the man is silent and has fallen into unconsciousness once again, and for the first time, Caitlin bothers to look at the man's features.
She is sure that she has never made this kind of pleasurable mistake before.
His face is angelic, and ends with a jawline strong, with features boyish and manly all at the same time. His hair falls away from his face, brown locks lush and soft enough to lose one's hands into. His body is lean and long, with limbs that could have been lanky but instead are sinewy and roped with muscles, but not to the point of bulkiness. This man has a face fit for a prince and a body fit for a ruler. Caitlin thinks of what his mind must be like, but she freezes herself and looks at the man again, lying amidst pillows and sheets of ivory, his scarlet armour providing a striking contrast to the pristine white sheets.
All in all, the man makes a very pretty picture to look at.
But that's all he is, Caitlin, she scolds herself. A picture, a vision.
A man.
Caitlin steals one last, long look at the man, and, for the second time of the day and in her life, proceeds to walk out of the room with unmistakable steely resolve and wobbly knees.