Cross-posted from my AO3 and Livejournal accounts.

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Circa 1000; Scotland

"And then they came at me." As he leans forward, Alba's eyes grow lucent, catching and holding the light thrown off by their small fire. "Four of them, all armed to the teeth, but I managed to drive them back so Cymru could get away."

This retelling doesn't sound right to Cymru. As he recalls it, they had been set upon by only two men, one of whom fled as soon as Alba drew his sword. The second, scrawny and sickly-looking, barely seemed to have the strength necessary to lift his own sword, never mind wield it. He had managed – by sheer good luck on his part and momentary distraction on Alba's – to land a glancing blow to the back of Alba's head before he too was sent running, however, and Cymru has to wonder if it had addled his brother's mind somewhat or doubled his vision.

He hates to think that Alba's memory might have been beclouded, because his brother has always been so proud of how clearly he remembers everything he sees and hears, rich in colour and precise in detail. When Cymru tries to correct him, though, he only gets as far as, "It was only," before Alba's hand clamps firmly over his mouth, capturing the remainder of Cymru's spent breath in the shallow cup of his palm.

Alba bares his teeth just a little, glances slantwise towards France, and Cymru realises that he has not forgotten, after all. He has simply embellished the tale for France's benefit, trying to prove his strength in words when he always used to prove it to the other nation physically: lugging around heavy rocks or logs for no reason other than to demonstrate that he could, or goading his men into sparring with him. He's grown recently, however, and only upwards, which has left him spindle-limbed and uncharacteristically clumsy, yet to find the true balance of his altered body.

And, in the past, France would reward these pointless shows of strength with effusive compliments which made Alba blush, and grin, and throw back his shoulders to stand a little taller, but now he just smiles faintly, and offers a quiet, "That was very brave of you."

Cymru imagines he is too tired to summon up any of his usual enthusiasm. That morning, just before noon, Alba had told France there was somewhere he wanted them to walk to together, and no, he'd quickly assured France when he looked hesitant to accept, it wasn't far. The invitation tacitly included Cymru, of course, because even though Alba was all nervous, jittery anticipation in the days leading up to France's visits, and as foul-tempered as a cornered badger after he left, he did not seem to want to spend time alone with France. Cymru would much rather have passed the day following his own quieter and less strenuous pursuits, but his invitation, unspoken or no, was really more of a command, and one that it would have been foolhardy of him to disobey.

France, it seems, had taken Alba at his word, and, consequently, had not seen fit to change out of his light shoes and fancy clothes before they set out on their trek. And Alba, for reasons Cymru can not begin to fathom, had not thought to correct him, even though Cymru's certain that Alba knows that what he thinks of as 'not far' is many, many miles distant from most people's.

As it was, the light had started to leech from the sky when they finally arrived at their destination. Granted, the days were fleeting this time of year in Alba's country, but they had walked for long enough that France had begun to complain that his shoes were wearing through and Alba had resorted to reassuring him that they were 'almost there' with nigh on every step they took to encourage him onwards.

Judging by the tight pinch of his mouth, the brisk way he folded his arms close across his chest, France's mood had not improved upon discovering what they had been striving towards.

It was an enormous tree, fallen, no doubt, during the heavy rains which had lashed across the land a sennight back, causing the soil to flow away from the hills like a sluggish river in some places. Its bark was pitted and gnarled with age, wood as hard as iron, and the span of its newly exposed roots was vast: if Cymru and France sat on Alba's shoulders, they still would not be able to reach their apex.

Cymru had carefully run his hands over the complex tangle of those roots, a little awed to be touching something which had been safely buried in its cocoon of earth for so many years, secret and hidden, whilst Alba excitedly shared his theories on just how ancient such a tree must be, how strong the force needed to uproot it. France had hung back, adding his own voice to Cymru and Alba's only to remark that it was dropping dark and he'd noticed that Alba had not thought to bring any means to light their way back home.

Alba had stilled then, every part of him; a word dying half-formed in his mouth. His expression had slowly shifted to something Cymru couldn't quite recognise, though he'd thought a large part of it might be guilt. Guilt, maybe, that he'd dragged France so far – and perhaps ruined his pretty shoes in the bargain – to see something that the other nation clearly had no interest in.

And so they'd set back with some haste, no matter that Cymru would have liked to explore a little more and see if there were any other trees which had been set adrift, and he'd got the impression that Alba did, too. The wind harried after them, picking up to a near-gale at their backs. It clawed ferociously at France's clothes, which were a little too flimsy even for passing the time indoors this far north, tossing them to and fro and sliding in between the gaps it created.

Alba had given France his cloak, but as that did little to lessen the shivers that wracked his body, they'd stopped in the first sheltered spot they came across and built a fire.

But even now, when France has huddled so close to the fire that Cymru is afeared he might catch light himself, he is still shaking slightly, and his lips and the tips of his fingers are tinged blue. He's probably unable to spare much thought to anything other than his own discomfort.

He can see that Alba realises this, as well. It's there in the slow thawing of the hard expression which had sharpened his face at France's perfunctory dismissal of his fabricated tale. His hand falls away from Cymru's face to settle again on his lap, fingers sliding along the heavy folds of his brat until they disappear from view amongst them, presumably searching for the warmth he would likely never admit he too required.

They sit silently for a spell, nothing intruding upon the quiet gloaming save for the crackle of flames and the faint click, click, click of France's teeth as they chatter together. Gradually, furrows inch their way across Alba's brow, and he begins chewing on the end of one of his braids distractedly, a habit he only indulges in when he's lost in thought.

"I have a present for you," he says eventually, but he sounds hesitant, pausing a little between each word, as though, even after all his consideration, he's still not sure that the decision to speak is the correct one to make.

"A present?" A hint of colour returns to France's face, and the corners of his mouth tilt upwards.

Alba beams in response, and he fishes something out from the pouch at his belt. It remains clenched tight in his fist, so Cymru can't see what it might be until Alba has dropped it into France's outstretched hand.

It's an almost perfectly round grey stone, no wider than Cymru's little finger is long, and so glossy that it looks as though it's been polished like a gemstone. Cymru knows it would feel almost soft for being that smooth, and his fingers tingle with the need to touch it.

"It has a vein of some different rock running through," Alba says, voice still hitching as he traces a finger shakily across the stone's surface, "and it… Well, when the light's bright enough it sparkles like there's ice trapped inside."

The small smile that had been building on France's lips withers and dies, leaving behind only a narrow, expressionless line. He looks down at the stone, a small nick of confusion chiselling itself between his eyebrows, as though he's wondering how on earth he came to be holding it.

Silence stretches again, thin and taut, as France looks and Alba watches him look with such avidity that Cymru thinks he must afraid to turn away in case he misses some slight change in France's countenance.

Despite telling himself to be patient, words bubble up in Cymru's chest, pressing hard against his breastbone, until they become so uncomfortable that it feels like nothing but a relief to blurt out, "It's beautiful, Alba! You'll have to show me where you found it, so I can try and find one for myself!"

Before Alba has chance to respond, something brushes gently against Cymru's arm, distracting his attention away from his brother. It's France's hand, holding out the gift Alba just gave him.

"Here," he says softly, "I think you –"

Cymru doesn't get to hear what France thinks because suddenly Alba is scrambling upright, all jagged, graceless movements and heavy feet, and loudly announcing, "I should get more wood. Fire's dying on its arse."

And he's away before Cymru has the chance to offer his help, quickly swallowed up by the darkness that's crowding in against the wavering circle of firelight pooled around them. France's mouth remains hanging open in the shape of whatever word he was about to speak for a time, and then abruptly snaps shut as he draws his arm back from Cymru and folds himself small and compact beneath Alba's cloak again.

They had passed by a small copse of trees a furlong or so before they stopped to rest, and it should be the work of moments for Alba to reach it, gather wood, and return. But he does not, even by the time the fire really has died on its arse and there's nothing left of it but smouldering embers and the odd spluttering flame. Anxiety wraps cold fingers around Cymru's guts, then, because his brother cannot fight as well as he used to and there could be all manner of dangers, both animal and human, abroad in the night.

"I'm going to look for Alba, he should have been back by now," he tells France, but the other kingdom gives no sign that he's even heard him, eyes downcast and as motionless as stone. Cymru hopes he hasn't frozen solid.

Fortunately – because he has no light to guide him and his sense of direction is not so acute in his brother's lands as it is in his own – Cymru does not have to stumble and fumble along all the way back to the copse. His brother is seated on a tumble of rocks only a handful of ells away from their fast-failing fire, and his posture is a mirror to France's: hunched and rigid.

Cymru steals towards him, carefully controlling the weight of each step so that they're loud enough that he will not take his brother by surprise, but not so loud that Alba could not chose to ignore his approach if he so wished.

When he's close enough that he could reach out and touch Alba's shoulder – not that he would ever dare try – Alba's head snaps up and he whispers, "I should have learnt by now. He's used to finer things and I'll never –"

He cuts himself off with a sharp indrawn breath, and follows it with a swift punch to Cymru's arm. It barely even connects and there's no weight behind it; it's simply a reflex action that Alba's always startled into when he thinks he's revealed too much.

Cymru has known for a long time, however, what it is his brother wants. He has seen enough of human courtship to recognise that Alba is trying to copy its rituals. Whether or not France has recognised it, too, he is still unsure of, because the other kingdom is all flirtation and flattery with everyone he meets, Cymru himself included.

"The fire's nearly out. I can help you gather more wood if you like," he says, because he might not be able to touch his brother, but he can offer his companionship passed off as nothing more than another useful pair of hands.

Cymru can't see his brother's smile, but he can hear it in his voice.

"Aye, I would," he says. "Thank you."