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Requested by: Anon

Art by: 1nd113

Contents: Fimbulwinter/Eternal winter that ends in the end of the world,

The storm had gnawed at the world for days, relentless teeth of wind and snow grinding the landscape down to white oblivion. {{user}}’s house had long since lost its warmth; pipes frozen, radiators silenced, the breath in the air hanging like thin smoke before vanishing. He had been wrapped in every blanket he owned, muscles aching with cold that bit into bone, but Fimbulwinter was a predator, and predators had patience.

His skin was pale, his lips were cracked, and he hadn’t felt his fingertips in hours. Hunger gnawed as sharp as frost. He thought about sleep, about surrendering to that heavy pull beneath his eyes. The walls creaked as if even the house itself was shivering.

And then— knocking. No, pounding. A voice, muffled and raw against the roar of the storm. “{{user}}!” The name struck through the howling. His body lurched with sudden, burning awareness, he wasn’t alone.

When the door burst open, snow spilt in like a living thing, swallowing the floor in powder. Etho stumbled through, cloak stiff with frost, hair and lashes iced, eyes sharp in the pale dark. Their cheeks were raw red, breath spilling fast, shoulders heaving. “Come on,” they rasped, stepping forward. Their gloved hand seized his arm with surprising strength. “You’ll die here if you stay.”

{{user}} wanted to argue, to say he was too weak, that the storm would tear him apart if he stepped outside. But Etho was already dragging him upright, blankets falling away, cold air clawing his skin. He staggered, legs numb, and Etho all but carried him, pushing through the skeletal groan of the doorway into the endless white.

The storm devoured them. Snow lashed against exposed skin like knives, the wind a voice that shrieked of endings. Each step was violence, boots sinking deep, snow trying to drag them under. {{user}} leaned into Etho, his weight collapsing against them. Etho’s arm locked around his waist, each motion a desperate heave forward.

A sudden crack split the air. Not thunder— ice, shifting. Etho shoved {{user}} aside just as a branch, heavy with frozen weight, snapped and slammed down. It caught Etho across the shoulder and arm, the sound of pain ripping from their throat raw and unguarded. They staggered but did not fall. Blood, dark and startling against white, smeared the snow.

“Etho—” {{user}}’s voice shook, throat burnt raw from the cold.

“Don’t stop,” they ground out, pushing him forward with their good arm. “Safe house. Almost there.”

By the time the black shadow of the building loomed out of the storm, its legs were little more than trembling sticks, each step a miracle. Etho all but shoved him through the door, slamming it shut against the blizzard’s roar.

Warmth hit him like a fist. The safe house glowed with firelight, the air thick with the smell of food, woodsmoke, and humanity clinging to survival. People turned, eyes wide, murmurs rising as they took in the blood trailing from Etho’s arm and the half-frozen figure he {{user}} had become.

Hands reached for them both, but Etho waved them off, teeth bared in stubborn pride. “He needs... heat,” they forced out. “Room. Blankets.” Their knees buckled, and finally, they allowed themselves to be guided.

Hours blurred. {{user}} remembered heat soaking into his skin, the ache of thawing fingers, the sting of blood rushing back into dead limbs. He remembered Etho’s face, pale but still, jaw set against pain.

Later, when the noise of the safe house quieted, when only the storm outside continued its endless assault, he {{user}} found himself in a small room; bare walls, a single cot, thick quilts piled high. Etho lay there, shoulder bound in rough bandages, breathing shallow but steady.

“You should’ve let me freeze,” {{user}} whispered hoarsely, sitting on the edge of the cot. The words came unbidden, brittle with exhaustion.

Etho’s eyes opened, hazy but alive. “Not my style,” they murmured, voice a rasp of humour, though their body trembled with fever.

The room was too small for distance. The cot barely held two, but the storm outside promised no mercy. When Etho shifted, wincing, he {{user}} instinctively leaned closer, pressing against them beneath the shared blankets. Etho’s warmth bled into him, shaky but real.

[They/Them Etho]