~JetpackClam

Prologue: Snowflake

The figure stood at the edge of the cliff, his eyes fixed coldly onto the world below. He watched in silence as the Earth was engulfed in the icy embrace of Winter; he was unfazed by the deafening howl of the wind, not registering the cold mountain air, unflinching as it pierced his body like an arrow. The wind tousled his smooth, white hair, billowing behind him in the breeze like a curtain the color of snow.

His arms lay against his sides, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of a sword clasped to his hip. Occasionally, his fingers wrapped themselves around the handle, gripping the blade absentmindedly and drumming against his thigh as he silently stared into the white oblivion of the storm. He was like a statue of flesh and bone, exuding the raw power of the elements, the ancient presence of a being as old as the Earth itself, the majesty of a king. Graceful, stoic, regal - proud.

Below him, there was a frost-laden plain stretching on for miles and miles into the distance. Like a glistening canvas of pure, alabaster snow, it swallowed the Earth whole, hiding the world beneath an impermeable crust of thick, powdery ice. A blizzard rushed through the valley, filling the air with droves of wind-driven flakes and wrapping the ground in a white, scintillating blanket. Even through the blinding haze of the snowstorm, nothing escaped the figure's view. This was his domain. The blizzard was like an extension of his own body - he could see everything, he could feeleverything.

He closed his eyes. He reached out with his arm, his palm turned towards the sky, his head bowed. Thin veins of gleaming blue light ran up and down his fingers, wrapping around the slender digits like the roots of a tree ingrained within his flesh. They glowed a sombre shade of cobalt, emanating mystical, unearthly power that seemed, somehow, to transcend the world around it. His fingers were curled, as if he was holding something in the palm of his hand, but there was nothing for him to hold but the cold, empty air.

His face was serene. He saw it clear as day; the rest of the world fell away as he envisioned the lattice framework, his heart guiding him as he pieced the pattern together in his head. It was as though he'd taken a back seat in his own mind, and had given his soul free reign to do exactly as it pleased.

It was clear to him. It was the marriage of the simple and the abstruse. Erratic, yet subtle. Special, and yet so much like the countless others that had come before it.

All that was left to do now was make it real.

He leaned his head back, but his eyes remained closed. He inhaled, letting the frigid mountain air fill his lungs until they felt ready to burst. Then, without any further ceremony, he refocused his mind onto the image, directed the magic into his palm, and commanded it to take shape.

The veins running along his hand started to pulsate, his fingers tensing as the power coursed through his body like electricity. He felt a rush as the world bent to obey him, the matter conforming to his will like a puppet dancing for its master. A white, gossamer mist formed in the crux of his hand, swirling like the trails of ghosts between his fingers as he extracted the essence of cold from the air. It converged in his palm, condensing into a tiny sphere of icy vapor floating an inch above his flesh, and slowly started to solidify as it molded itself into the exact form he desired.

His arm went lax. The mist dissipated. He opened his eyes, and there it was, as real as the ground beneath his feet.

It was perfect.

A single snowflake hovered where the ball of mist was not a moment ago. It was exactly as he imagined. He saw how every arm interlocked, coalescing into an elegant shape with numerous identical branches extending out from the center. All the pieces fit together flawlessly, forming an immaculate structure that was so small, so fragile, it seemed ready to shatter at the lightest touch of the breeze.

He turned it slowly around in the air as he studied his specimen from every possible angle. It caught the pale light like a diamond glistening in the sun, like a miniature chandelier suspended between a million candles as bright as the stars. He was so entranced by his creation, he almost didn't notice his visitor arrive. Almost.

"I can see why you spend so much time here, Frídr'in," a voice mused. "I can feel my blood starting to freeze. Of course, you'd feel right at home."

Frídr'in smiled.

"It's good to see you too, Áran'in."

Áran'in walked up soundlessly, taking his place on the cliff beside his brother without another word. He crossed his arms, gazing out over the precipice at the barren terrain down below with a thoughtful glint in his eye.

He stroked the stubble on his chin as the wind ran its fingers through his wavy black hair. Any normal being, of normal flesh and blood, would have been shivering uncontrollably as the cold sapped the warmth from his body; him, he just pulled his cloak closer into his breast, and said nothing. He cupped his hands over his mouth and exhaled into his fingers, warming his digits and watching as his wispy breath drifted away before vanishing forever into the impenetrable haze of the snowstorm.

Frídr'in was admiring his creation the way that only an artist could. There was a lively twinkle in his eye.

"What do you think?" He asked without looking away. His voice was low, as if he was afraid that speaking any louder would shatter it.

Áran'in's eyes flicked towards him. He had a feeling he knew what he was talking about, but he asked regardless. "About what?"

Frídr'in finally tore his eyes off the tiny structure in his hand and looked at his brother. He was grinning.

"About this."

He gestured to their surroundings with his free hand. He turned on his heel so that his outstretched arm swept over the environment, and took a few short steps away from the ledge. Frídr'in's back was turned to him now, but he could still practically see that giant smirk plastered onto his face.

"My masterpiece."

Áran'in's eyes drifted across the landscape. It was a barren, featureless void as far as the eye could see. It was so lifeless, he felt himself die a little inside just looking at it. He could never understand his brother's fascination with something so dull, compared to all the wonders of the world available to them.

But it made him happy. That was good enough for him.

He gave a grin of his own. "Something tells me you like snow... a bit too much, Frídr'in. Not that I'm judging, of course..."

Fridr'in scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean?" He was doing his absolute worst to sound scandalized. And it was working.

"Oh, I think you know just what I'm talking about..." He reached up, catching a few snowflakes in his palm and eying them critically. He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

He couldn't help it; the absurdity of that notion was so bizarre, so ridiculous, he had no choice but to laugh. He chuckled in spite of himself, shaking his head as he reclaimed his place on the ledge. Áran'in found himself joining in, and soon, both were laughing wholeheartedly, one holding back tears, the other with his face buried in his palm.

The laughter faded off slowly, their voices carried away like dust thrown into the wind. A comfortable silence descended between the two, both content just to enjoy each others presence as they observed the ice blowing wildly about their heads. Áran'in sighed in satisfaction.

"...In all seriousness... you've outdone yourself, dear brother. It's nothing short of a work of art."

Frídr'in nodded gratefully. He returned to marveling over the snowflake, trying earnestly to find any laws with his work, and failing.

There weren't many in this world who Frídr'in could honestly say he felt comfortable around. Áran'in was an exception. His company, his mere presence, made him feel young again, almost as though all the weight of the eons were momentarily lifted from his shoulders. In recent years, he was Frídr'in's only confidant; it had been a long time since he'd had any close mortal companions, and longer still since the days when the very mention of his name didn't strike terror into the hearts of the living. He was the bringer of Winter; the Devourer, the Northern Wind, the Ravager. Mortals, beasts, even the dragons knew to respect his power. It was hard to be welcome in a world gripped by fear, and harder still not to be afraid of something which could crush you like a bug with the flick of a wrist.

Áran'in was different. He didn't tremble at the very sight of him, nor did he lay prostrate in his presence for fear of invoking his wrath. As his brother, and the only being left capable of matching his strength, he had nothing to be afraid of from Frídr'in, and vice versa. It was a welcome change, and an immensely cathartic one at that.

It wasn't always like this. There was a time, long ago, when the people knew him not as a fearsome destroyer, but as a friend. He was younger, then; not as weathered by countless ages spent adrift in the currents of time. Memories from long ago floated to the front of his mind, bringing with them a sad smile as he remembered days long since lost to the bottomless pit of the past.

A thick, ethereal fog filled his mind. The faces of people he once held dear emerged from the mist, now mere shadows of their former selves, treading aimlessly through the darkness like wraiths cursed to wander the corridors of his mind, forever. They were all that remained of them; all he had left.

He hated to admit it, but there was another reason he kept such small company. Everything dies, eventually. This was something he learned the hard way, many times in the past. Mortals replaced mortals, nations rose and fell. The continents were completely different today than they were in ages past. Valleys were carved into the earth where once there stood mountains which scraped the fabric of the clouds. Even the stars would die when the time came, their light vanishing from above, one by one, leaving behind an empty spot in the sky where once, long ago, the fires of heaven so brightly burned.

He'd lost too much to time, the one thing even they could not control. But they survived in his memories. And because of that, they lived on forever.

Not Aran'in, though. Because he was the same. He shouldered the burden of immortality right alongside him; he was eternal and unchanging and insusceptible to time, just like he was, when everything around them was destined to crumble. As such, he was the only one he could grow close to without knowing, in the back of his head, that one day, he was going to lose him too.

They were more than brothers. They were two of a kind.

He snapped himself from his reminiscing; he had no idea of how much time had passed. He turned to address his brother.

"Is there a reason you're here, or do you just enjoy calling my... preferences, into question?"

The ghost of a smile crossed Áran'in's lips, but it faded just as quickly. That was answer enough.

"There is. As much as I love to tease you, Frídr'in, I'm afraid there are more pressing matters at the moment than your... unhealthy obsession with frozen water."

He snorted. "Oh, I love it too, dear brother, believe me. It's cute. Well, go on then. What do you need to tell me?"

His question hung in the air for a moment, neither answered nor unanswered. Áran'in was silent; he seemed to have remembered something that he'd much rather have forgotten. His jovial demeanor vanished, and was instantly replaced by one of weariness and regret. Whatever it was he wanted to say, he didn't seem at all eager to say it. He sighed.

"March is almost over. It'll be Spring soon. You know what that means."

Áran'in could have sworn he felt the winds falter for a fraction of a second, before recovering just as quickly. He said nothing more as he let the message sink in, watching the blizzard rage on the tundra far below in silence.

He saw how the wind tore violently across the clearing as it carried his brother's snowflakes through the air. It would have been devastating, if there was anything on the terrain to ravage, but the landscape was as bare and empty as the moon. Honestly, he found it rather poetic.

" ...it means it's time for me to go," he whispered.

Áran'in just nodded, and looked to the ground.

For a few, excruciating moments, they both said nothing. The only sound was that of the wind blowing wildly across the clouds, whistling sharply above their heads with their delicate parcels in tow. Before too long, the tension became too much to bear. Áran'in was the first to break the silence.

"I'm sorry, dear brother-"

"Don't be. You have nothing to apologize for." Áran'in looked up. Frídr'in was still looking away; he could see the corner of his mouth raise in what he must have hoped was a reassuring smile, but his brother could see the bitterness hidden underneath, like a cloak concealing a dagger. It was his turn to sigh.

"No... I'm sorry. I'm sorry... that something so beautiful couldn't have lasted forever."

Áran'in stared at his brother remorsefully. Nothing could have hidden the pain in his voice. This was hardly the first time he'd had to remind his brother of the change of the seasons, but it never got any easier. There was a grain of truth to his earlier teasing; Frídr'in's creations were almost as precious to him as life itself. Sometimes, Frídr'in honestly wondered whether there was anything he truly cared for other than his work, barring his brother. He was afraid to answer that question.

He looked at the world below, filled from top to bottom with his handiwork. Within a month's time, everything they saw would be gone. Every individual snowflake would have been melted by the onset of Spring, to make way for a new kind of beauty that flew in the face of everything he was.

Frídr'in clenched his fist. Áran'in placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, and he relaxed. What he said next was simple, but wise.

"Nothing lasts forever."

A bittersweet smile crossed Frídr'in's lips.

"Except for us... isn't that right, dear brother?" His voice was dangerously quiet.

Áran'in looked away. More silence. Then, he managed a nod. "… we're Gods. Gods never die."

Frídr'in reached up and covered Áran'in's hand with his own. It felt like he'd been buried up to his wrist in ice.

"... he did."

The silence between them was as thick as smoke. They stood close together as the storm continued to blow furiously around their heads. Áran'in could feel the storm picking up speed; what was once a solemn howl of mourning grew into an ear-splitting shriek of agony. Aran'in swore he could feel the sky itself start to crack. Áran'in's arm, despite his efforts to stay firm, began to shake. "We won't share his fate... I won't let us."

Fridr'in raised his head slightly, his mouth twisted into a rueful smile. His voice was on the verge of breaking.

"Are you so sure...?"

For the first time in eons, Áran'in didn't know what to say. He struggled to find a proper response, but try as he might, it was no use; he was speechless. He couldn't remember, in all his years, another time he'd seen his brother like this. His mouth moved, words forming on his lips and hanging off the tip of his tongue, but still nothing came. He was dumbstruck.

Frídr'in's face was like stone, but the pleading and desperation in his voice was clear. He met his eyes. There, he saw something he hadn't seen in a long, long time. He thought for a moment, trying to place what exactly it was, before realization dawned on him.

It was fear. Frídr'in, immortal Lord of Ice and Snow, The Craftsman of the North - The God of Winter - was scared.

Suddenly, Áran'in knew what to say. His voice was firm and confident and clear as he spoke. He sounded every bit the ruler he was.

"I am. I promise you, I'm not going anywhere. And... and neither are you."

Frídr'in could tell from his tone that this was a promise that Áran'in intended to keep. The skirr calmed somewhat; the relative peace of a few moments ago returned, reassembling itself around them like the shattered fragments of a statue slipping delicately back into place.

He released his grip on Frídr'in's shoulder and turned to walk away from the cliff. He paused; he slowly turned to face him and whispered one last thing, venom seeping from his words like poison dripping from the fangs of a snake. His voice was even icier than the storm he spoke through.

"You've already taken one brother from me..."

Frídr'in turned, but Áran'in was already gone. He was alone.

All around him, the storm flared up like a white bonfire. The world was enveloped in darkness as, above, the clouds formed a thick, grey canopy spanning the breadth of the sky. The temperature plummeted like a rock dropped into the ocean. It was as if the storm had been holding back this whole time; now, the real blizzard was unleashed upon the world. The true extent of Winter's power was realized.

As the world descended into an inferno of ice and darkness, the master stood back, and watched. Frídr'in bowed his head, the storm engulfing him in a shroud of white as his steely eyes fixed themselves firmly upon the horizon.

He released the snowflake, and watched the wind carry it away.