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Hanneman is not yet used to the Faerghan snow, lasting well into spring. He hates it. He hates the way he has to tread through it, his favorite coat inevitably dampened by the endeavor. He hates the way it prickles at his bones, like his first failures at conjuring thunder. He hates how it reminds him of this land and its people, tightly gripped in old, unkind ways which have long since overstayed their welcome.

He lets out a curse through labored breath, thinking of the fools who deem Ailell to be hell on earth.

Not far from its fiery pits lies another kind of netherworld. There live creatures who speak and act like people. There falls not black brimstone, but the purest white. It falls, and falls, covering their shackles, lodged deep in the earth.

Though those who inhabit the snowbanks may live seemingly unfettered, free as the Goddess made them, their chains remain. There comes a day for each and every one when they are dragged back below: this land made them, forged them, and wants them back.

Ironic, then, that he would brave the cold to meet a man with hair the color of hearth’s flame. But that is where the similarities end.

An old lumberjack’s lodge, its owner conscripted and sent to the slaughter: that is where they have chosen to meet, far from prying eyes. Certainly more comfortable than previous encounters. Their clandestinity would normally warrant a different kind of place, one where sunlight struggles to reach, but this is neither the place nor the time of year for alley liaisons. Their hands would turn blue before reaching their destined spot, and not many miles separate them from a part of the kingdom where the mingling of two such bodies is taboo.

Hanneman stops, winded. 

Before him stands a mountain, a child of this frigid landscape. It does not shiver nor budge: it only awaits.

Is it foolish to hope it might share his longing?

Hanneman sets foot on the short cobblestone path which once ushered visitors towards promises of comfort and heat.

Gilbert kisses Hanneman like a lion. Ravenous, wet. He does not give of himself, only takes and takes again. The professor kisses back, seeking warmth in the sleet. He finds only frozen ground. Cracked, unloved. Unloving.

After the first barrage of kisses, there are always seconds of silent contemplation. A breach in the blizzard, which allows Hanneman a moment to behold. Yes, behold, for even an ice statue merits admiring.

Gilbert is not any smaller, nor less proud, but there is no mistaking it: he is undoubtedly less than the last time they met.

Not less manly, or less strong: there is simply less of him to love.

The light has grown dimmer in his eyes; thinner flesh covers thick, stout bones. His skin has become pale, almost translucent. Like a skeleton. Like a dead man walking.

In their days together at Garreg Mach - if such an adverb even warrants using - the professor had known no greater pleasure than Gilbert’s company.

It felt, to Hanneman at least, like the mending of old wounds: at long last they each found a friend, kind, never judging. Meals were tastier with Gilbert, the sun brighter. Nightmares, farther away than ever.

They had settled into a peaceful routine of training and teaching, food and conversation. Hanneman’s attentive eye had not missed Gilbert’s distaste for food, among other things, and he had endeavored to assuage it.

His breakthroughs notwithstanding, Hanneman can hardly remember a moment of greater glee than the day his friend asked for seconds at the dining hall. From there on, life at Garreg Mach had been littered with discoveries of Gilbert’s favorite things.

His favorite dish, sautéed pheasant and eggs.

His favorite wine, an Ordelian Beaujolais.

His favorite person…

Well, that, Hanneman knew from the start, no matter how much Gilbert tried to deny their relationship.

Second place was more than adequate for the professor. It is not as though he had been left with any reason to doubt.

On the night of the grand ball, the Ethereal Moon herself was their witness as Gilbert’s strong, wiry arms pulled Hanneman’s lips onto his own.

A little love, sequestered away, for their hearts only.

A small festival for every moment spent together, as bright and precious as that night’s sky.

Now Hanneman stands before Gilbert and beholds. Yes, beholds, for he fears that if he averts his gaze, anything resembling life in the knight’s face will freeze forever.

He can barely feel the hearth he tended to for so long.

Oh, what meager kindling Hanneman's love was!

A wiser man, a saner man would know that the Gilbert he knew is dead and gone - if such a man ever existed in the first place.

And there they are, the cramps. The ones that always stir Hanneman back to action, to lust. He kisses Gilbert again, this time of his own initiative, as if trying to bind his own chain of flame around that cage of ice.

They are the same cramps he has felt for five years now, since the day Gilbert announced his desire to return to Faerghus. To a land that had seen him only as a body meant to fight, to kill, to die.

The very same cramps provoked by the mere recollection of his dear Iphigenia. The pangs of the day when Hanneman first knew loss, and felt as if all color had been drained from the world.

The pain of a man who is alone.

That pain, immortal, drives him to suck life’s breath out of Gilbert’s lungs.

How does it even feel to be alive?

Hanneman does not know.

History will repeat itself.

Hanneman will fail to save the one he loves most.

Eventually, their passionate kissing and groping leads them to stumble through the front door, the cobblestone underfoot giving way to solid, largely even flooring.

The lodge’s interior is no architectural marvel. The bedroom, kitchen and what could qualify as a sitting room all share the same space, with no other commodities. Luckily, they are hardly in need of privacy, and the bed is more than spacious enough to accommodate both of them. Seeing only one, large pillow, Hanneman reasons that whoever lives - lived, bless his soul - must have been quite the robust individual.

Gilbert steps away from Hanneman with a face that is nearly apologetic.

“I will get us warmed up,” he curtly explains, approaching the fireplace.

Hanneman would warn him against it: secluded though the location may be, it would be conspicuous to light a fire in a building that is supposed to be abandoned. His Southerner fingers, already showing signs of the inclement weather, force him to reconsider.

Even though Hanneman is perfectly capable of casting a Fire spell, Gilbert insists on tending to the fireplace himself. It is hardly news to the professor, often left to wait as his lover prepares the bedding and any other tasks aimed at ensuring their comfort.

Hanneman supposes that the knight may still feel the burden of expectations - no, he feels it here more than anywhere else: the burden of being father, husband, man. Even here, in their little paradise of sin, he is lover, and Hanneman is beloved: Gilbert must act the part.

It is in moments like this, when he is forced to be idle, that Hanneman is most wont to reflect.

Inevitably, his thoughts return to their happy months at Garreg Mach: he remembers a time when Gilbert claimed that Hanneman’s mind was beyond him, but the professor disagreed, and now, he finds himself wondering if it isn’t the knight’s mind that is truly inscrutable.

It may be true that Gilbert lacks Hanneman’s penchant for academics, although the professor would attribute that to a dismissive environment and a lack of confidence.

No, what puzzles Hanneman above all is Gilbert’s desire to serve this wretched country, the very same kingdom that rejects the Crestless as unwanted. Surely, had Gilbert’s brother borne the Goddess’ blessing, Gilbert too would have been cast to the wayside. Instead, things being as they are, Gilbert was raised to ignore his most basic human instinct and favor a liege’s wellbeing over something so fickle as an oath.

What a shame that such a good man and his bright, prodigious daughter would be born in such a barren, unloving land.

Gilbert could be a prouder man, more loving and loved.

If only Gilbert’s ring belonged to Hanneman, and not Madeleine!

Instead, he is trapped, his mind so trained to submit that he would not entrust even a menial task such as lighting a fire.

Unable to escape his own mind, Hanneman welcomes Gilbert’s return from the fireplace, just as he welcomes the cozy warmth that fills the lodge.

They kiss again, Gilbert soon pushing Hanneman down on the edge of the bed. By now, Hanneman recognizes the silent cues as if they were given aloud. The knight discards his coat on a nearby chair, and Hanneman is placed at a perfect height to untie Gilbert’s belt.

He gets to work.

“You never check if I have weapons on me,” Gilbert comments, low and raucous.

“Any weapon I could bring, you could overpower barehanded,” Hanneman begins. “Conversely, no weapon could protect you from a blade of Wind, or a point-blank Thoron. We are not here to fight,” he concludes, hands and eyes wholly devoted to the unfastening of the knight’s many clasps.

Gilbert interrupts him, two large fingers holding up his chin so that Hanneman’s gaze meets his own.

“Such a smart man. And so beautiful,” Gilbert whispers. Inadvertently sensual, for a man so terrified of his own feelings.

Hanneman has never been one to fall for displays of brute strength. The second son of a viscount, he had always dreamt of attending a grand ball, dancing a romantic waltz with a handsome knight.

It should be no surprise, then, that Hanneman would lean into Gilbert’s velvety touch, the shiver of unveiled shoulders causing him to moan.

Expected, even, that he would fall to his back, thighs spread, before his fantasy given flesh.

There was a time when Hanneman’s buttocks were the talk of certain circles down in Énbarr. What he offers Gilbert is not as firm as back then, but they are still pleasantly soft, and more importantly, he has not become any less eager. Hanneman lifts and spreads his legs, beckoning Gilbert to proceed. They cannot afford to dawdle, lest the lit fireplace truly become their undoing. With a nod, they agree to move straight to the main event.

True to his training, Gilbert produces a flask from his coat. Hanneman knows Gilbert well enough to be sure he will not sacrifice safety in the name of speed: ever the protector, Gilbert applies copious amounts of oil to Hanneman’s entrance, in and out, with multiple fingers. It does not take long for the professor to be ready.

Gilbert lines up and pushes himself in. Not long after, he is fully sheathed and thrusting in and out of Hanneman with the full force of his bowels.

This pace, too, is familiar, the result of many such encounters.

A grunt, and a push. A grunt, and a push. Hanneman sings.

There is no need for words: not of care, nor affection, for they understand one another implicitly. Hanneman will take all that Gilbert will give.

There is no use for them either. Hanneman has long since lost hope in any power his mind may still exercise upon the fading hearth. Fifty years of knowledge amassed, and for what?

He knows that the knight won’t be swayed, but beneath the ice still lie flesh and a heart, which for sixty years have been denied the true sating of their needs. Sixty years in which they have been trained to answer the call of women, and not fellow men.

When presented with Hanneman’s supple offering, Gilbert’s carnal needs finally take hold.

Hanneman lets himself be fucked into the mattress, no better than a common whore.

Gilbert’s gallantry turns cold and unpassioned as he finishes.

He never asks where Hanneman would like him to come, nor does he hold him, or kiss him as he does so. It is always outside, without fail: usually on the professor’s stomach.

Naturally, he does not help Hanneman clean up either: not with his hand or - Goddess forbid! - with his tongue.

To think that Hanneman always admired Gilbert’s uncompromising spirit, his single-minded devotion.

And yet, something causes the most unlikely man to break the silence.

“Come back to Fhirdiad with me.”

A low murmur, like a prayer.

Hanneman knows better than to listen to the siren’s song.

“Why do you tempt me with what you will not give?” Hanneman asks with a sigh.

“Why do you fight to upend the world’s order? This is how things have been since the Goddess decreed it. The blessed and the unblessed. It is how things should be,” Gilbert rebates, his voice devoid of any fervor.

Perhaps it is true. Hanneman’s mind is beyond him.

The professor stands tall, upright despite his nudity. He does not cry: Hanneman’s tears, too, are frozen.

“I will have neither sympathy nor mercy for a world that made a breeding mare of an innocent woman. I have sworn on her grave that I will crush it beneath my foot. That is why I follow Her Majesty. Why I fight. And should the Goddess herself demand we answer for it…”

His fist clenches. His blood burns.

“Then we shall know that Fódlan no longer needs the word of Seiros.”

His muscles relax. The fire that would melt the lords of snow turns to steam, all freed at once in a sharp exhale. His face is pale again, as though it never knew rage.

But Gilbert… no, only Gilbert would know. If timeless ice exists, then so must flame eternal.

And at this very moment, it stands before him.

Hanneman’s neck bends. His voice cracks.

“You knew me better than that, once,” he laments.

Gone are the days in which Gilbert used to comfort him, to hold him as he wept.

He supposes it is only right. After all, though his body may appear identical, a different man has taken Gilbert’s place.

He now sees his tender hearth, snuffed out. Only icy flint remains, lighting a cold flame.

That odious name.

“Was it all my own delusion? Thinking that I had managed to lodge myself anywhere close to your heart? Gilbert-”

“Do not call me that,” Gustave snaps. “Those feelings… they are not mine.”

“Again you play this game. Have I ever asked you to be anyone but Gilbert? I never once minded your demons. Goddess knows I have my own! Did I ever reject you for them? Tell me, Gilbert, sincerely.”

Gustave speaks, after a moment.

“If you came to Fhirdiad, we could be together… not when I am on missions for His Majesty, certainly, but-”

“Come to Fhirdiad and be what, Gilbert? Your courtesan? Your dirty little secret, away from your family in Dominic? Never to be called yours, and you mine?”

“These things do not occur in Faerghus. It is not… how we do things.”

“Really now? Was it not you who was buried inside of me just ten minutes ago? Was it another man, as you claim?!”

Hanneman’s hands rise to cup Gilbert’s cheeks. Soft.

“Another man, caring for me the way only you know? Another man, making me sing the song only we know? Another man, loving me?!”

Gustave steps away.

“You know why it cannot be, Hanneman. I thought you, of all people-”

“I what, Gilbert? I have purpose in my life. What do you know of purpose?! You, so content to live and die as this hell of a country pulls your chains?!”

Gustave rears his head, like a beaten dog.

“If you intend on standing in my way, I will trample these shackles of yours beneath my feet. You may decide whether you want to protect them, or let them be broken at last.”

There is a minute of poignant silence between them, in which Hanneman does not spare him a single glance. Instead, he walks to his clothes, and begins to get dressed.

“If this is how you truly are, let this be the last time we meet,” Hanneman commands, peremptory.

Far too late, the knight finds his words. The dirge has already been sung.

“To me, you are the sun,” he begins.

A compliment. Likely the most romantic Gilbert has ever given. And yet, it rings hollow. Cold.

“You are so warm and kind, and full of drive. You desire so much, and not an ounce of it is for yourself. I… cannot be like you.”

“It is not a sin to want,” Hanneman rebukes.

“Gilbert would have wanted to agree. Oh, how desperately I would've wanted to, Hanne. But I can no longer be that man, who wallows in sin and selfishness. Gustave is his king’s servant. Gustave…” he hesitates.

“Gustave belongs to Madeleine.”

“And Gilbert? Can he, at least, belong to me?” Hanneman implores.

“Clinging to a dead man is not good for you.”

“You would know, wouldn't you? You, whose eyes are always fixed upon the living?” Hanneman contests, his voice like shattered glass.

The faintest flare of wounded pride flashes in Gilbert’s eyes. It is now that Hanneman knows for certain.

If this is what it takes to light a fire in the eyes of his beloved, Hanneman would rather they stay dim forever.

Now he knows that Gilbert is dead.

Gustave steps on the entryway. There is barely a hair out of place: just by looking at him, no one could tell what they shared. Nor what they lost.

He opens the door. His gaze is on the snowy peaks.

“This is what we are taught. Be thy lord’s coat, so that winter’s cold may not reach him. Be thy lord’s shield, so that the enemy’s arrows may not harm him. Be thy lord’s blade, so that his hands may remain untainted by blood,” he recites.

“Gustave does not need the sun.”

He steps outside.

Hanneman is alone.