The first frost comes with the surprise of betrayal, brittle and sharp as a knife in the dark. In the wee hours of the morning, Aeralhil crouches with a great cracking of knees and fumbles with the fire in the hearth, returning feebly glowing coals to life. Somewhere in the mound of furs behind him, Pick snuffles, stirs, and settles with a sigh. Aeralhil spares a look over his shoulder as he rises. Something old and tired tightens his throat.
Outside, the grass crunches underfoot as he rounds the stoop, chin tucked to his chest, nose buried in a lumpy, rather dusty scarf. He swallows a sneeze, eyes watering, and wraps his arms more tightly around himself. There is no hint of dawn in the east, and Menelmacar twinkles in the southern sky, sword arm upraised in a posture of command.
Aeralhil ducks into the stable, shying from accusation, and retrieves the axe from its peg upon the door. Flindol snorts a greeting, but Aeralhil returns shivering into the wind and cold, trudging to the trough nestled in the lee between house and stable. The water within hasn’t frozen through, he sees with relief, shattering the thin film of ice on the surface with the butt of the axe.
The sound is loud in the stillness, and he scrapes the resulting splintered shards into a waiting pail with a grimace.
“It’ll freeze again within the hour,” a voice says from behind.
“It needs doing,” Aeralhil replies, turning.
Cuphir, wrapped in Aeralhil’s cloak, shifts from foot to foot.
“Back inside,” Aeralhil says gently, “It is not yet time for you to be about.”
Cuphir’s jaw sets mulishly even as he draws the cloak more tightly about his shoulders.
“You’ve left it too late now,” he says, “You’ll have to travel through the cold season.”
Aeralhil sets the pail aside.
“It is merely an early frost,” he replies, “There is time yet.”
Cuphir frowns fiercely at his boots–unlaced, tugged haphazardly over a thin pair of trousers.
“So you’re leaving,” he says, “You’ve had word.”
Aeralhil folds his arms across his aching chest. “I have,” he replies.
Between them, the silence makes as if to settle, to make its bed and lie therein.
“Cuphir–” Aeralhil begins.
“It’s all right,” Cuphir interrupts. His lips are thin. “When do you go?”
“Not at this very moment,” Aeralhil replies, striving for levity as he nods towards the door, “We needn’t carry on in the cold.”
But Cuphir will not be swayed, and he remains where he is, childish in his grown hurt.
“When?” he demands, shivering.
“No later than the week’s end,” Aeralhil replies, defeated, “My leave has been generous as it is.”
“And when will you return?”
“You must know now that I cannot say for certain,” Aeralhil returns. A thin edge creeps into his voice, and he passes a hand across his face. When he continues, it is with measured calm. “You all will be provided for in my absence,” he says, “I have seen to it.”
“Forscéadan þu,” Cuphir spits, ragged with crackling heat, “We can care for ourselves.”
“Cuphir,” Aeralhil says, then stills. The silence twists, restless.
“It makes no difference,” Cuphir mutters, “You needn’t say it.”
“I will return,” Aeralhil insists.
“You’ve never wished to be my father,” Cuphir replies, turning for the door, “Why begin now?”
