The snowfall of Koldovstoretzian was a paradox of duck-fluff soft and unrelenting hard. There was a tenderness to the way it fluttered those few inches before hitting the crisp white of the pristine gourd; there was a ruthlessness to the way it battered down from the imposing clouds above after falling from a painfully overcast winter sky. Such beauty untold nested in each intricate flake — it was a pity a mask of hateful storm was drawn over their delicacy. He remembered the days when he would make snow angels in the freshly fallen blanket of white, waving his arms and legs with a frivolity he would no doubt laugh at today, in denial that the boy was a younger version of himself. And suddenly he thought of the Verbier slopes, powdered snow and ski tracks, annual trips and cheese fondue. Suddenly things were simple again, and he was a boy laughing as he weaved through the crowds too fast, too free. Suddenly he felt such warmth despite the swiftly dropping temperatures of Lake Bear.

Anthonie, charmed by the cool allure of winter sports, had thrusted himself into chaperone duty at the Koldovstoretz Olympics without question. A fluttering moth drawn to the flame of burning cold, he would not refuse a chance to indulge himself in Russia’s snowy paradise for a whole week of escapism.

In his winter coat, Anthonie’s mind was a tranquil hum of peaceful energy as his eyes drifted out to the distant horizon, the sky and the ground blurring into the scene of white, overcast and snow-laden. The light sheen of ice on the lake-face reflected the light of the dying sun, a barely visible smudge of light through the suffocating clouds. The gentle rowing of sturgs pushing through the thin layer of frozen winter-clear water made crinkling sounds in the distance, a whistle of charms in the wind. It was an unforgiving draft, swaying the bare branches of dead trees, the gusts sending badgering snow onto the faux fur fluffs of his coat, the flakes slipping in through the beige tufts, melting and fusing the strands together. Blue eyes shining brighter than the mere stain of sunlight there was an unplaceable curiosity as he watched the landscape with passive interest. Its beauty was fleeting, some would have said, yet far in the north, such beauty would not relent so easily to melting.

Crossing his legs, Anthonie stood, eyes trailing back towards the inside of his yurt, where warmth and friendship awaited him. Giving the snow one last, longing look, he turned his back on the sight of the Koldovstoretzian comeliness and walked the few steps — boots crunching in the thick layer of snow — back to his yurt. Tilting his head ever so slightly, Anthonie watched as a light drift of snow settled over his seat, before melting from the heat his body had left. A soft humming slipped out between his lips, something about the the dawning of winter and something he could not quite remember.

No matter, they had business to attend to.

Reconciliation was a troublesome beast, a best he had not needed to fend for himself against for a few peaceful years, bar the oft arguments with his sister. But siblings will be siblings. Then again, past lovers will be past lovers, and two of them in the same claustrophobic abode was a disaster playing with fire. Anthonie’s water could either douse its growing immensity or, as grease fires tended to behave, aggravate the situation entirely. Perhaps that was exactly why wizards had extinguo at their disposal — pity it was quite useless against metaphorical flames.

With the recent exchange of letters between he and Kitty, the monster otherwise known as nostalgia was catching up to him far too fast for his liking. The visionary the Engelbrecht family had sculpted Anthonie to be — the visionary Kitty had called him no less, would not dwell so deeply not eh past, would set his eyes to the future as he learnt to let go of memories that served him no purpose. He remembered the teachings of looking only towards the horizon, yet allow eve Anthonie, their perfect heir, to disagree with their philosophies. Being trapped in the past was a dangerous thing, yet learning to use times passed was a skill little did have. For the ambitious Anthonie, however, it was a skill he would learn, for pasts had the potential to fuel to the future. While, no matter the drive, one could never reach the horizon line, the past was a tangible aspect that should be applied for future endeavours.

And yet must he use an automobile analogy?

Almost instantaneously he was brought back to the very beginnings of their road trip, him rolling down the Tahoe window, singing Riptide while on his guitar. The sort of peace, the sort of freedom, the sort of comfort he felt and had never quite felt sense. Friends at his side with only the gushing of cool summer evening wind at their company. The sunset there had been late, far later than the one in the Ural Mountains, and the colours had been vivid, a painting where the distant fireball was the final eye to a perfectly depicted dragon.

Not like the sunset today, nothing like the sunset today, dull, colourless, eclipsed by the clouds. Whereas this was full of longing, that in 2018 was the feeling yearned for already felt, and a car of content teenagers. Anthonie was seventeen then, yet it felt like an eternity ago. It was a time when everything had seemed lighter, freer, a butterfly fluttering through life when he now had grown into bird, majestic, perhaps, yet carrying the heavy weight of his feathers. Even if he was reminiscing with rose-tinted glasses, there was no doubt times were different, if not better. Then, Anthonie still had the trio with no fractures, no cracks, no schisms.

Anthonie knew, the only way to move on was to draw a final close to their strained relationship. Whether it be in laughter and delight or in silence and indifference, their need to bring an end to this wordless distaste was significant. He was caught in the middle of their disagreements, yet his plans were attuned for himself as much as they were for his two friends, for he could allow himself to think of the memories fondly, can think of the memories grievingly, but not be stuck int his quagmire of purgatory with the turbulence of agonising bittersweetness in the form of both. This in between of question, of wondering, of yearning, was enough to drive a man to insanity.

Preferring not to experience madness, Anthonie instead busied himself with preparations. Laying out plates, utensils, and cups, he then brought to water to a boil, the scent of tea soon drifting through the limited space of their lodgings. All was well, Anthony thought. He just hoped they would not leave a mess for him to clean up, shattered glass and shattered hearts.

“Samuel,” he called. “We are expecting company soon.”

@Samuel Sauber, @Katherine Townsend