#i blanked out i remember next to none of thisHDJDJFJ

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

My Dearest Friend...

Glaciated Memory AU | Master Of Ice Art | More to Me (pt 2)

1k

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Imagine this, if you will: you meet your best friend when you’re young and he already has graying hairs.

Well, young is a relative term. You’re not exactly young, or at least you don't think so. The younger children around the village call you old even though that’s hardly something to judge one's age by--you’ve only just started university--but your friend is older.

You had never enjoyed the snow coating the grass or the cold and frost that cling to your lashes on the early morning walks to your winter classes before, but that day, with ice stretching in front of you, shielding you and keeping you safe from harm, that day when he looks back over his shoulder at you and gives you a warm smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, you exhale and see the frost on your breath and you suddenly find you can never look at things like winter and white and cold the same way again.

His eyes are so light of a blue they are almost white. They’re a heavy contrast to his dark skin. At first you think the ends of his long hair are white but it sparkles like glitter and ice and you realize it's coated in frost.

He saves your life.

He has a limp you notice when he leaves the village, simply a traveler passing through like a snowfall. You drop your papers, your pencils, your projects and they spill over the ice at your feet.

“Wait--Wait!”

He waits.

You design and build a leg brace for him in your dorm. He waits patiently, standing, still as an ice sculpture until you're finished the next morning.

“Come back if it stops functioning,” you tell him.

He studies you with calculating eyes that shouldn’t have been so warm when their colour was so cold. He nods.

And he does come back. A few months later. You offer him tea and show him your plans for a new brace--one that improves upon the failures of the old one--something you started designing the moment he’d left the first time. He sits down this time and smiles and you chat. Your breath shows in the air with every exhale the longer he stays. Your teeth chatter through your grin and he grins back before throwing back his head to laugh.

You become fast friends after that.

You learn to wear more layers. His hair grays more and you graduate after many long sleepless nights studying and designing. Biomechanics, biomechanical engineering, robotics--you find fascination with building, with bodies. “A marvel,” you mutter. “A marvel. I wonder if I could replicate it.” And he smiles at you.

He comes and goes as often as cold weather. You stay holed up in your house for the most part. Designing, building. You wave him over to his new brace, made from a material more resistant to cold than the last. You’re learning. He stays for tea and you make up a guest bedroom just for him. It stays there for years to welcome him whenever he visits.

Once, someone comes to find you for knowing him. You need a leg brace of your own after that.

He has more enemies than he has friends it seems.

“I am sorry, my dear friend,” he says. There is a blizzard outside.

Your discoveries are stolen one night and someone else’s name is plastered across your work no matter how hard you try. That breaks you more than anything else.

“I’m thinking about moving,” you tell him one night, as though you haven’t been silent for the past three days.

“Oh?” he says. “Where to?”

“Somewhere cold.”

He laughs.

He takes you to a place outside of any town. Remote and freezing.

“This is my home,” he says to you. It’s a perpetual winter.

“I think I’ll build a bunker,” you say, your nose numb from the chill.

You get kicked by a treehorn and you make a sign Beware of Treehorns and hit your dearest friend with it.

“I apologize, I should have warned you,” he laughed. “I had forgotten they were unfriendly to others.”

“My ribs do not accept your apology,” you sniff.

“Will you accept it instead?”

You huff and puff out frosty breaths and jam the sign into the ground.

Of course you forgive him. How can you not?

You build something to protect you and your bunker from the creatures when your friend is not there.

He enters your bunker shaking snow off his layers and off his straw hat.

“No--not on the floor.” You throw your hands into the hair. “Now I’ll have to mop it all up.”

“My apologies,” he says, though he’s smiling wide enough to show his white teeth. “I shall assist you.”

When the frost finally melts from his hair in the warmth of the bunker you see it wasn’t the ice and snow making it look white this time.

“What is this?” he asks, looking at your project, a skeletal structure made of spare parts you’ve started to construct, loose wiring and tools scattered about it.

“A marvel of engineering--or well, it will be soon.” He looks dubious so you take off your glasses and wipe them on your shirt. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m only just beginning to build what I need.”

“I won’t be back for a while,” he says quite suddenly.

You put your glasses back on hastily. “Is something wrong?”

“Please, keep far away from the north side of the forest until I return.”

You’ve known of the serpentine war for a long time. You hear of it in the north when you’re purchasing supplies from the nearby town. You know it's over when he stumbles into your bunker and collapses face-first onto your carpet.

You have never seen him in red before and you find you do not like the sight.

The type of first-aid he needs is one that requires study and time that you do not have.

He catches your hand mid-way through bandaging his side.

“I’ll be alright,” he says, his voice like a cool, barely-there breeze.

“Of course you will.” Your teeth are chattering, you realize, even though it’s not cold in your bunker.

He does heal up. It takes a few months before he’s hiking with you to the town, leaning heavily on you and the walking stick you’ve made him. Your project lays on the table forgotten.

The Birchwood Forest is colder than it ever has been.

“I’ll be back,” he says once he can walk on his own.

“You won’t be leaving,” you say firmly.

“Julian,” he says. “My friend. I must go.”

You wonder if it makes you a terribly bad or terribly good friend for letting him.

You pour yourself into your work. A body takes shape in front of you. You do everything you can to make it human.

No one can steal this from you. It is yours and yours alone and it is marvelous.

It’s years before your friend returns.

Your creation is walking by then. There are wires still exposed and kinks to work out but you’re so proud of it. He enters through the door, slowly and with enough snow on him you’ll be swimming in it by the time it melts, but you don’t care.

You introduce him to your work.

“I used the face I knew best!”

Your friend smiles. There’s sadness there.

“Julian,” he says. “I’m dying.”

His hair is fully white.

Your smile vanishes.

You hadn’t noticed your own gray hairs and wrinkles until then.

“I have no family. No one to pass my element to. I have been looking, Julian, but…”

He needs your help. Not to live, no matter how much you talk to him, but to ensure the element he carries within him does not die.

So you create something that can store it. You travel to places together, you gather what you design, you design and through trial and error you make something that can hold the power.

“There’s no one I trust with it more,” you tell him as you tinker with your creation. “He’ll keep it safe. I designed him to protect.”

“Thank you,” your old friend says, like a breath of relief.

You create him a holder for his element and store it in the creation that shares his face.

He wants to pass in the snow. You carry him the Glaciar Barrens and it is there your friend takes his final breath.

And you discover you have done more than store his element.

Your Zane acts differently. From the moment your friend takes his final breath, your Zane seems to wake up.

You continue tinkering, researching and you don’t know what you have done but nothing can explain it.

It’s his eyes that are the same. His face that you replicated to the best of your abilities still has some differences.

The eyes however. The eyes you know.

You don’t have time to begin to miss your friend when he’s standing right in front of you.

Zane feels, just like you wanted him to. You put everything you can into upgrading him until he’s as human as he can be. Until he can feel the temperature of something by touching, until he can feel the breeze and the snowflakes as they fall on his skin.

You add a memory switch, something that is not human. You hope that it will return his memories from before, but it does not. You leave it untouched for years.

And then you are old.

You are old and your friend has not aged. You have built him everything, you have taught him how to speak again, to learn to read and observe, you have taught him everything you can. But you do not know how to teach him to move on. You never did.

“Goodbye, old friend,” you say and you flick the switch so that he may start anew and live on without you.

You watch the light fade and his eyes darken to brown.

You close your eyes.

And a long time later in a dusty empty bunker, they open back up.

----

Zane blinked.

It was cold.

He was standing at the edge of a village, bare feet in the snow. His toes were numb. Villagers who had caught sight of him were approaching, calling over others to bring warm water and blankets.

He felt as though he was forgetting something rather important.