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Like a never-ending caravan dragged along by weariness, the wind and snow blocked the path, veiling the view beyond the lone cabin in an unrelenting gloom. The boundary between sky and earth had faded; the road ahead dimmed. Everything was blurred in the gray fog. The snowstorm showed no sign of relenting. The howling wind kicked up grains of snow nearby, pushing them along like dunes, while anything in the distance became completely unrecognizable—cliffs, rocks, lights, roads—all obscured and lost.
It was then, as Radahn stood at the doorway of this lone shelter in the midst of a vast and empty world, listening to the wind sweep through the mountain pass, that another voice spoke behind him.
“Looks like we won’t be moving forward anytime soon.”
Radahn turned around and saw a guest, who had somehow appeared inside the room without his notice. The figure was slight, wearing only a thin clothing. Clearly he had been trudging through the snow not long ago—snow still clung to his head, shoulders, and the strands of his long hair. He trembled from the cold, the tip of his nose red with frostbite, but his expression was calm. Radahn glanced outside again at the snowy ground. There, a line of footprints had appeared—footprints that most certainly hadn’t been there just moments ago. The snow was already filling them in.
“Miquella?” he asked, voice hesitant. Indeed, the blond hair woven like wheat, the gentle expression, the elegantly arranged features—everything pointed unmistakably to his half-brother, Miquella the Empyrean. Yet something felt off. The figure didn’t quite match the image of Miquella in his memory… The scene itself seemed strangely blurred.
No, it wasn’t his vision—it was his consciousness, drifting as though steeped in warm water, floating aimlessly…
Radahn tried to steady his thoughts. In front of him, Miquella smiled.
“It’s me, dear Lord Brother. I’m far away, but sneaking into your dream, because I miss you.”
“This… is a dream?”
“Yes,” Miquella replied lightly. He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm up the stiff, frozen limbs. Radahn stepped forward and lit a fire in the long-unused fireplace, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere in the corner of his eye.
Miquella watched as Radahn prodded the firewood with tongs. Once a few steady orange flames had risen, he carefully knelt on the rug, sniffled, and stretched out his frozen hands and feet toward the warmth. He continued speaking, seemingly unbothered by the interruption:
“Still, I expected the dream of the Starscourge General to be more magnificent. More grand.”
“Such as?” Radahn asked, still trying to make out Miquella’s features as though peering through mist.
For a few moments, Miquella appeared exactly as he remembered him: the pampered golden child beloved by all. But in other moments, it didn’t seem quite right. At one point—perhaps because of the flickering firelight—Radahn could have sworn he saw streaks of silvery purple in the tips of Miquella’s hair.
“Such as… ah, such as, a brilliantly lit palace. A triumphant return at dawn. The scent of your enemies’ blood still clinging to your hair, the severed head in your hand, eyes clouded white… You kneel before some vague-faced god, who crowns you with a golden laurel. Your name echoed through the mouths of people across the ages. The feast goes on forever. You and your lover, dizzy with drink, slip into the garden and entwine beneath the trees… That sort of thing. Dreams of lords and warriors are always more or less the same—splendid and dazzling.”
Miquella said. His outstretched hand still trembled slightly, which Radahn took and cupped between his own to warm.
“But this, this is something else entirely.” Miquella murmured. “For a dream of passion, of lust, isn’t it a little too… subdued?”
“Passion…” Radahn echoed. The surreal blur around him gradually faded—or perhaps he had simply grown used to the wavering nature of dream-things, which seemed to vanish when not directly observed. He kept his gaze fixed on Miquella’s face, and at last understood why it had seemed unfamiliar to him: the figure kneeling before the firelight, legs tucked beneath him, was no longer a child.
Though still extremely youthful—sixteen, perhaps seventeen at most—the boyish roundness had faded from his face. The Miquella here was leaner, taller, quietly changed.
And like the smoke and shadows of a dream, memories came drifting up alongside this realization: the younger Miquella, the one outside this dream, used to pressed his soft, childlike lips to his and sighed after a hesitant kiss. He had smiled with helpless resignation.
“If only this body could grow up,” Miquella had said. “You know it’s not the family ties I feel for you, not the feeling of a younger brother. It never was.”
Now, in the storm-wrapped solitude of this lone cabin, Radahn stared at the Miquella before him—no longer a child—and was silent for a long while. At last, he murmured:
“You’ve grown.”
Miquella nodded. “Yes, but only here. Only in a dream can I appear to you like this. Only here can I finally take on a shape that won’t make you afraid of hurting me. Look,” he said, still smiling as he traced his fingers across Radahn’s palm.
Then he guided Radahn’s hand up to touch his face—no longer soft with childhood, but still delicate. Radahn’s rough thumb brushed across lips that were pale, cool, and parted just slightly with a lingering dampness from within. Then Miquella guided the hand lower, down to the white curve of his neck. He tilted his head gently to one side and used his other hand to sweep aside the hair strands, offering his throat openly so Radahn could press his whole palm to it.
Still so fragile, Radahn thought.
Cautiously, he let the crook of his thumb and forefinger settle around Miquella’s neck. Beneath that soft skin, he could feel the faintest flutter of a heartbeat at the base of the boy’s throat—trembling like a chick hatching inside an egg. So delicate. So breakable. Without even applying pressure, his hand encircled most of that slender neck. It would take just a little force. Just a little…
Radahn’s fingers trembled.
Miquella let his hand fall to his side. He offered no resistance, passively allowing Radahn to hold his neck. His gaze remained gentle, his eyes calm and unafraid.
Then, in a whisper that carried on the trembling air in his throat, he said:
“It’s all right. I understand. You know, I often wander through dreams—through the deepest desires and secret yearnings that never wake with the day. I understand this part too: violence, punishment, torment, death, eternity… they’re all the hardened shells where love is so often trapped. So go on—tighten your grip. It’s all right.”
But Radahn let go.
His hand slid gently away, threading through Miquella’s hair to rest like a warm cushion at the nape of his neck.
“That’s not the way my passion works,” Radahn said softly. “Snapping a neck… that’s something you do to an enemy. You are not an enemy, but my beloved.”
—
Radahn leaned down and kissed him.
At first, it was a cautious touch at the corner of Miquella’s lips—light as a dragonfly skimming the surface of water, probing for any sign of rejection. But there was none. Quite the opposite—Miquella’s lips met his with tenderness, and then parted easily, welcoming him in.
No resistance at all. He let Radahn explore him, their breath mingling, the scent and heat of it growing wetter, headier, until it wrapped them both in a fog of sweetness.
Outside, the snow kept falling. The fire snapped and crackled in the hearth.
Miquella reached out to embrace Radahn’s shoulders. Though still kneeling, he let his upper body lean fully into Radahn’s strong, warm chest, nestling against the warmth of muscle and breath. Radahn’s touch slipped beneath the fabric to the edge of his shoulder blade, still cold from exposure. The warmth made him flinch—but then he shifted, offering himself up, arching his body into the hand.
Radahn caught the hint and smoothly lifted him, guiding him to straddle his lap. Miquella, ever direct, slid one hand down to the belt below Radahn’s waist, feeling the hardness rising beneath. Satisfied, he gave a small, blurred smile, then tugged off his own belt. With practiced ease, he drew Radahn’s hand under his robe, guiding it from his flat abdomen up to his chest. What Radahn found there made him pause—a layer of soft, unexpected flesh beneath his fingertips.
Miquella noticed his reaction immediately.
“It’s a dream, after all,” he whispered, voice barely more than mist. “Anything is possible… mm…”
Radahn silenced him with a stroke, his rough fingertip brushing over a nipple, circling gently after that first contact, his nail grazing, teasing. When he finally moved to the other side, the first was already standing out in color and shape beneath the thin white robe.
Miquella let out a low, shivering moan and relaxed into the sensation. He lifted the hem of the robe himself.
With that gesture, everything hidden was laid bare. His lower half was unclothed, and between his legs, where he straddled Radahn’s thigh, a damp spot had already soaked into Radahn’s trousers.
He shifted his weight, spreading his legs along Radahn’s waist and leaning back to give a clearer view—both for Radahn and for himself. His gaze dropped to the delicate slit beneath the base of his cock. It pulsed softly, slowly weeping fluid. He seemed genuinely curious. Staring at it, he reached down and ran a finger along the folds. The motion gathered a slick thread of translucent fluid, which he then held up before his eyes, examining the shimmer.
“So this is it,” he murmured, as if understanding something for the first time—and in a sudden movement, brought the glistening fingertip into his mouth.
Though his body no longer resembled that of a child, the lewdness of the act—its sheer erotic charge—struck Radahn speechless.
“You… don’t you feel any shame?” he asked, stunned.
“Why?” Miquella replied with serene innocence. “I just wanted to know the taste.”
He leaned forward again and kissed Radahn, inviting him to taste the lingering flavor in his mouth. It wasn’t unpleasant—if anything, it carried a faint, honeyed sweetness—but overwhelmingly present was the heady, unfiltered musk of desire. It bypassed reason and struck directly at instinct, the kind of scent that would make any male’s gaze go momentarily hazy. That raw craving clung to Miquella’s lips, coiling around every breath.
Radahn had to summon every shred of self-control not to shove Miquella down, tear off his robes, and thrust into him right then and there. He knew the size of his own cock—nothing to scoff at, if the dream reflects it. What might be a source of pride to others was, to him, a constant burden.
It meant he could never, not in the real world, consummate anything with the cursed, underdeveloped body of his betrothed.
Even now, with Miquella’s figure grown fuller, more mature in this dream, Radahn couldn’t fully cast aside his worry. Between kisses, he forced himself to speak.
"May I check?"
Miquella gave his permission without hesitation.
Radahn supported his lower back with one hand to steady him, while the other reached down toward that slick little opening, still slowly weeping nectar. He traced the wet cleft gently, up and down, and Miquella’s body shuddered under his fingers. Yet the Empyrean only gave a small shake of his head, letting the hair strands that had drifted over his face fall back again. He offered no resistance as Radahn pressed in, slipping one finger into that tight, yielding heat.
It went in easily. Almost too easily.
The inner walls were already slick with lubrication, welcoming him. Radahn added a second finger and felt the entrance pulse, as if eager, sucking his fingers deeper into the warmth. By the time he slipped in a third, the calloused pads of his warrior’s fingers rubbed against the silken flesh, and Miquella finally gave in to rapid, shallow breathing. He bit his lip and let out a faint nasal moan, struggling to process the stretch—the full feeling of intrusion—and the strange hollowness that bloomed deeper inside him.
But Radahn didn’t drive in to the limit. He didn’t pound or pry. His fingers moved slowly, merely testing the flexibility of the passage, gauging how far it could stretch.
Whether to distract himself or perhaps in a playful sort of retaliation, Miquella reached for Radahn’s upper body. With practiced fingers, he undid the clasp and exposed the broad, sculpted expanse of his brother’s chest. Then, he moved lower, freeing the part of Radahn that had grown hard and insistent.
When Miquella finally got a good look at it, he paused. Just a moment—but it said enough. A flash of understanding, and perhaps gratitude, for Radahn’s caution.
He’d always known it would be sizable—something that matched Radahn’s formidable stature—but actually seeing it fully erect, feeling its weight, its heat, the thick veins coursing beneath the skin… It startled him. The thought of having it inside him, of being filled entirely by it, made his hips twitch, and another pulse of slick fluid welled out from between his legs.
“Too late to change your mind,” Radahn said dryly, reaching up with his free hand to brush Miquella’s hair.
“I’m not,” Miquella replied honestly. “It’s just… kind of obscene.”
Radahn blinked. “Well, sorry. I was born this obscene. And really—calling someone’s body ‘obscene’? Where are all of your manners?”
“Oh, sorry, Lord Brother,” Miquella said with a laugh. “My royal etiquette lessons in Leyndell never covered how to politely critique my sibling’s cock. But I never said I didn’t like the obscenity here.”
With deliberate care, he wrapped his hand around Radahn’s shaft, letting his palm press against the tip, rubbing slowly. Radahn inhaled sharply at the touch.
“So?” Miquella teased, voice low. “Should I take it in directly, or would you rather to use my mouth first?”
“Where did you even learn all this…” Radahn muttered.
“Not from royal etiquette,” Miquella replied breezily. And he had already decided for them both.
With a subtle twist of his body, he silently asked Radahn to remove his fingers from inside him. When Radahn pulled back, Miquella shut his eyes briefly, unable to hide the twitch of overstimulation. His lashes trembled, and for a moment his eyes looked misted with tears.
Then, this golden-haired Empyrean—who once stood with divine composure before the altar of the Erdtree, receiving the reverence of kneeling citizens—now bent low as though in prayer. He brushed aside a lock of hair behind his ear with tender precision, then pressed a kiss to the shaft as if blessing it.
And then he took Radahn into his mouth.
Despite the confident attitude the act itself was clumsy, inexperienced. His small mouth could barely accommodate even the tip. As the thick head pushed in, his throat bobbed, gagging slightly from the sudden intrusion. Eyes welled with tears, but he kept going.
His tongue pushed forward eagerly, but the narrow space at the back of his throat wouldn’t accept any more. So he did what he could—pressing his warm, soft mouth around the crown, sucking gently, licking with shallow strokes of his tongue. One hand wrapped around the base to support what wouldn’t fit.
The heady, overwhelming scent of male arousal filled his senses, thick and primal. His breath turned ragged, half sobbing around the obstruction. Pale lashes lowered in submission. His cheeks were flushed red, but he didn’t stop—not for embarrassment, not for inexperience. He just kept moving, lips now tinged with color, sliding back and forth on the shaft, mimicking the rhythm of sex in miniature within the hot confines of his mouth.
That tight, tender pressure nearly robbed Radahn of his senses. The sight before him—Miquella, focused and devout—was almost too much.
There was no coyness in it, no false seduction, no shame. Miquella approached it like a discipline, like something worth mastering. He was already learning, testing Radahn’s responses, adjusting the tempo of his mouth and hands, even discovering the slight sucking he could apply just as he pulled away.
He was getting better by the second.
Radahn’s hand rested at the back of Miquella’s head, and he had to concentrate not to grab at his hair. His restraint frayed until at last his breath stuttered—he was coming undone.
Miquella looked up just in time to choke, caught off guard. He pulled back, coughing, but even as he blinked through watery eyes, he remembered to stroke Radahn’s length from base to tip, wrapping his hand around the soaked, dripping head to help him finish. His other hand circled and rubbed, coaxing the final spurts out.
Tears slid from the corners of his eyes as he coughed, but once he caught his breath, a weak breath of laughter escaped him.
“So bitter,” Miquella murmured as he dipped his head again, gently taking Radahn’s spent cock back into his mouth. His tongue moved slowly, delicately, cleaning away the remaining release. Once satisfied, he pulled away and sat up, swaying slightly before curling into Radahn’s embrace once more. He rested his head against his brother’s chest with a long, contented sigh.
His soft, warm belly pressed against Radahn’s shaft, while his wet backside settled across Radahn’s thigh. Miquella rubbed his cheek lazily against the muscular plane of Radahn’s chest, breathing in deeply as if to commit his scent to memory. Then he tilted his head, pressing his ear to Radahn’s chest and listened to the strong, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat echoing through bone.
“Your heart’s racing,” he whispered, voice hoarser now, dreamlike. “I guess that means I did well? Did it feel good, Lord Brother? Is my King Consort well pleased?”
Radahn glanced down and met his gaze—wide, expectant, sincere. There was no teasing in Miquella’s tone, no sarcasm. He was asking because he truly wanted to be affirmed.
“…You did very well,” Radahn finally said, low and halting, even a little awkward. “I liked it. A lot.”
Miquella beamed like a child praised by his elder.
Radahn wrapped one arm around his bare back, the other drifting down between his legs once more. Miquella obediently spread them, letting Radahn touch that sensitive little entrance again. Even the lightest contact made it twitch, slick fluid already pooling on Radahn’s thigh beneath them. Miquella shifted, brushing his abdomen against Radahn’s still-hard shaft, and seemed to mouth something like “obscene” with a half-smile.
Outside, the snow wind prowled the uninhabited mountains, howling like a distant beast. But here—lit by firelight, warm and close—they had carved out a sanctuary, a fleeting paradise that welcomed every lingering touch.
Radahn lifted Miquella by the hips, steadying him with practiced strength. He guided his cock to the wet, waiting entrance. The tip, already slick with saliva, was quickly coated with more as it met the heat between Miquella’s legs. But he didn’t press in—not yet. He lingered, rubbing along the opening.
The ache of emptiness flared hotter.
Miquella panted from the growing need, his body trembling from the insistent hunger rising within. He cast Radahn a pleading glance, then reached between his own legs, spreading the pink folds wider with his fingers, offering himself more fully.
Only then did the head of Radahn’s cock push past the threshold.
Miquella had expected it to be difficult—that he’d have to brace himself against pain. But instead, the passage welcomed Radahn with surprising ease. The earlier stimulation, the natural slickness, the readiness born of desire—it all conspired to let him take Radahn’s impressive length in one steady motion. Most of it, anyway.
The stretch was nothing like fingers. The sudden fullness struck him so hard his vision blurred, his body instinctively tensing in resistance. But Radahn held him firm, hands buried in the softness of his thighs, anchoring him. One hand tightened, a warning squeeze that only sent another bolt of pleasure through him.
Miquella gasped sharply, overwhelmed. Even though he’d anticipated this moment, even though he’d prepared himself, he hadn’t expected just how much his body would want it—how his dream-forged organs, ones that shouldn’t exist, would open with such need. His inner walls clung to Radahn’s cock with desperate insistence, as if afraid it might retreat. And deeper still, he felt something else stir—something that also didn’t exist in the waking world. A second chamber, warm and wanting, slowly unfolding and calling out with its own aching emptiness.
It was then that he heard Radahn speak—Radahn’s voice dropped even lower, emerging from his throat like something clenched between his teeth.
“This position doesn't allow me to move. Be careful.”
Miquella barely had time to process those words—his mind already beginning to blur under the wash of pleasure—when he was lifted. The world tilted. He let out a startled gasp as Radahn shifted him without breaking their connection, gently lowering him onto the rug, laying him flat on his back. His legs, once draped around Radahn’s waist, were lifted and bent, ankles now resting lightly against his brother’s shoulders.
Before he could recover from the sudden change, Radahn’s control snapped.
The careful restraint of earlier was gone. He drove into Miquella with growing force—each thrust deeper, harder, more insistent than the last. He pulled back just enough to surge forward again, grinding and plunging with hungry momentum. Miquella’s lips parted, and he cried out, unable to hold back the sounds that spilled from his throat. He hadn’t meant to wail. Hadn’t meant to sound so broken. But his voice, already trembling, reshaped itself into something raw and high and aching. He had no room to manage it. He’d thought the foreplay had drawn out enough slickness to ease what followed.
He’d been wrong.
Compared to this—compared to Radahn inside him, unrelenting and complete—everything before had been only a whisper. Now his body responded like a shattered beehive, flooding with sweet, viscous nectar that coated Radahn’s cock with every pull, every push. When Radahn withdrew even slightly, the entrance clung, unwilling to let him go; when he plunged back in, the force sent honey flying, droplets shimmering in the firelight.
Miquella’s toes curled. The pleasure coiled in his lower belly like a leviathan, gathering strength, then breaching all at once.
His first orgasm came swift and unrelenting, taking him without warning, pinning him in place with tremors that shook through his entire frame. It hadn’t even ebbed before Radahn’s ceaseless rhythm drove him toward another.
He tried to twist away, to pull back from the overwhelming wave. But Radahn held fast to his ankles. His softened legs pressed against Radahn’s hardened frame, and his hips felt locked in place, mounted like a fitting piece of a greater whole. Deep inside, something fluttered—his innermost threshold, that secret door, trembled open in orgasm.
Radahn felt it. And he did not hold back.
He pressed in—all the way. Their thighs met, base to base, nothing left outside. Miquella screamed.
It was what he had longed for. The fullness. The claiming. It wrecked him.
He felt bloated, every hollow place within him filled to brimming. His entrance bit tight around the base, unwilling to release even a single inch. The expression one makes in unbearable pleasure is not so different from pain—and perhaps Radahn mistook one for the other. For he slowed, the punishing pace giving way to small, deep thrusts into the very end of Miquella’s passage.
At the same time, he reached up, gently cupping the small swell of Miquella’s chest. His fingers toyed with the flushed peak, already reddened from attention.
Miquella looked at him through eyes still glazed with sensation. He saw Radahn’s chest heaving, his arms hard, his body burning with strength. For a moment, the helplessness struck him: the sensation of being prey, caught and devoured by a beast. Out of question. Radahn always did liken himself to a lion.
The thought drifted hazily through the kaleidoscope of sensation like oil across the surface of water. But then—
Through the veil of his tears, he saw Radahn biting his lip, trembling with restraint.
No, he thought. Not like this…
He struggled, breath catching in a sharp gasp, and found the strength to speak at last—
“Don’t… don’t hold back, Lord Brother,” he gasped. “I… I want to hear your voice.”
Even before he finished speaking, Radahn took a deep breath—nearly letting his control unravel on the spot. And Miquella, despite the chaos of sensation overtaking him, still found the strength to clench down around him.
The firelight cast a glow on the pale pink of his skin. A fine sheen of sweat now clung to his slender neck, and a red imprint of Radahn’s hand marked the soft swell of his chest. The scent that rose from his body was thick and sweet—like lilies' nectar steeped in lust—and the heat of the fireplace only intensified it, wrapping them both in its cloying sweetness.
The overstimulation had made Miquella’s mouth restless. His lips and tongue worked with anxious friction, thin strands of saliva stretching between parted lips as he swallowed reflexively.
Radahn leaned down and kissed his wet mouth again, not just to taste him, but to let Miquella hear the raw, unsteady rhythm of his breathing. As he resumed thrusting, he felt Miquella’s body tighten in anticipation, so he slipped two fingers into his lover’s mouth.
Miquella took them in without hesitation.
His tongue pressed along them eagerly, muffling his cries. Both his mouths—above and below—were now wet and noisy, the sounds of obscene pleasure echoing between their bodies. Stimulated by the rhythm, by the smell, by the loshing symphony, Radahn sank his teeth into Miquella’s shoulder.
And when he licked the smooth skin afterward, something primal and dangerous stirred within him—an appetite, a hunger that felt almost like a warning.
“It’s… it’s okay,” Miquella rasped, his voice raw from crying. But the end of his words turned into a long, drawn-out note, like a chant, like a dream-song. “You can bite… it’s okay…”
Radahn turned his head, gaze falling on the tear-streaked face of his half-brother—his beloved. Miquella’s eyes were puffy and red, his expression a mess of tears and flushed abandon. Yet still, his lips curled in a dazed, trusting smile.
Such narrow shoulders. So fragile. If he just bit down hard enough, there would be blood. If he squeezed just a little, he could snap Miquella’s neck. He could devour him like a lion swallowing prey, crush that beautiful golden gaze between his teeth, taste the sweetness behind his eyes. He could open his belly and see the small, impossible chamber nestled beneath that thin layer of skin—the very place now wrapped around him, holding him inside…
Ah, desire roared.
He could do anything. And Miquella would only smile and let him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Radahn released the bite, lips brushing softly against Miquella’s ear. Then he kissed his eyelids, gently.
“Why?” Miquella whispered in his ear, his body swaying with each thrust, pushed and pulled in rhythm with the waves. The cock still buried deep inside him throbbed with every heartbeat. “Why hold back? It’s just a dream…”
Radahn didn’t answer.
But Miquella felt the way he trembled inside him—felt the head of his cock nudging again and again against the furthest reaches of his body, pressing against the entrance to that second, hidden place. His entire body tensed, fingers curling. Slick fluids poured from his overstretched entrance, making each movement squelch with wet friction.
Another orgasm was coming.
Miquella whimpered, breath hitching as his long-desired brother panted just as heavily above him. He could feel the weight of Radahn’s cock buried deep inside, the stretch and pressure of it reaching through the soft wall of his belly. The mounting pleasure crested, twisted into a sharp, aching squeeze—
He cried out. His own cock pulsed, releasing a stream of warm fluid that splattered across Radahn’s abdomen, his body seizing with the force of climax. At the same time, his inner passage clenched violently, spasming with need. He heard Radahn gasp, and then felt it—his brother’s cock driving into him fast and hard again, without mercy. Miquella knew exactly what that meant.
His womb—the soft new chamber forged only in dreams—fluttered, eager, preparing for what it was about to receive.
He reached out and grabbed Radahn’s arm.
“Stay inside,” he pleaded, desperate, breathless. “Fill me… Lord Brother…”
And this time, Radahn obeyed.
His release came like a tidal surge. Miquella could feel it, thick and hot, spilling against the delicate walls of that recently awakened womb. He felt like he was dissolving under it, like he might melt from the sensation, from the unbearable fullness. But the small chamber did its duty—tightening, stretching, accommodating every drop. Not letting a single bit escape.
His body trembled, too wrung out to move.
In that moment of deepest union, every one of Miquella’s senses exploded outward. He could hear the blood roaring in his veins. Hear the pounding of two different hearts, their rhythms out of sync. Hear the sharp breath scraping from his lungs. Hear the crackling of firewood dancing in the hearth. And, beyond the thick stone walls, the wind and snow—still endless, still howling—encircled the cabin like a vow never to release them.
It’s all right, the snow seemed to say. Stay a little longer. Sink deeper. It’s only a dream, after all. You have nowhere else to go. And you were so, so cold…
When Radahn finally finished, he remained inside, keeping their bodies joined until the fierce tide of orgasm faded into a quiet, trembling afterglow.
Miquella, at last, could breathe again.
His entrance, red and swollen, still pulsed erratically, and his fingers twitched in exhaustion. As Radahn’s cock slowly slid from him, strands of white followed, while the rest stayed inside, filling him completely. The inside of his thighs were soaked with fluids, slick with sweat, seed, and slick.
Radahn gathered him up and rolled them gently, so that Miquella could rest his head on his brother’s chest once more. One large hand rubbed slow, soothing circles across his back. Miquella sighed at the touch, eyes half-lidded, already drifting toward sleep.
But then he felt Radahn lower his gaze. Felt his brother staring at his face, not with hunger or lust, but with scrutiny—just like he had at the very beginning of the dream, when trying to recognize who stood at the door.
“…Lord Brother?” Miquella murmured, drowsy but curious.
Outside, the mountain wind continued to howl, a constant presence. He smiled faintly and said, “There’s no need to rush. The snow hasn’t stopped. We can stay here a while longer.”
“…Miquella?”
“Mm?” he answered softly, sleepily.
“You are... the real Miquella, aren't you?”
He opened his eyes.
Radahn was gazing down at him, unmoving, as if struck still. The hand that had been stroking his back had stopped.
“…Lord Brother?”
“I remember now,” Radahn whispered. “I know where we are.”
The fire in the hearth, left untended, had burned low. Only a faint glow remained, casting a dim and drowsy light over the room. In that half-light, Radahn stared into Miquella’s eyes without blinking.
“You once wrote to me,” he said quietly. “You said you’d crossed a snowfield, where the wind howled without end… and you were going there to plant your tree at the edge of the world.”
Miquella kept silent.
“Is this the place?” Radahn continued. “You said, the snow never stopped, that the path was unclear. No guidance, no end. Does it mean, when you walked through that snowfield… did you think of me?
Were you hoping the blizzard would give you an excuse to rest? Hoping you’d find an embrace to warm you like this?
Miquella… did you enter my dream, or was it I who entered yours?”
Miquella held his gaze for a long time. Then, softly, he smiled again—wistful, resigned.
“You see through me, always,” he murmured, his voice once more gentle and weary, as if drifting into sleep. “But dreams… dreams are strange mysteries. Even I can’t fully understand them.”
He lifted his head, eyes meeting Radahn’s.
“All I know is this: outside this dream, you’re asleep alone in your bedchamber at Redmane Castle. And I… I am bathed in moonlight that filters through the branches of the Haligtree. The sea and sky separate us. And only this dream—this dream is the sole undying illusion that you and I may share.
So, just a little longer… please, stay here with me, in this snow.”
He tilted his face up, meeting the soft kiss that Radahn placed on his lips.
And in this history that never happened, in this corner of the world that has no place in reality, in this dream that was never born in any time or space—
—the snow never ceased its roaming across the silent wilderness.
END