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Cold, cold, the light of heaven. It cut through the cabin in a clear, refreshing shaft, tinting everything gold. Outside, the low ball of the sun gilded the world: the indulgent, frosted drifts, the graceful arch of the lily, the spines of the briar rose.
Tucked in the sheltering curve of the woodland, nestled deeper into the insulating, quiet quilt of the snow as if a grumpy hedgehog, emerging prickling from its den — the cabin glowed with warmth, with the protective wing of the sun’s rays. So low: filtering through the trees, trailing sweaty, golden fingertips over Henry’s face.
Hans lay and looked, and let the sun touch for him.
The pads of his fingers tingled as the rays rippled and glanced; one at a time, the ripples of the branches like the trail of Hans’ fingertips over the vulnerable hollow of Hal’s temple, the sweep of his eyelash, the rough smudge of his cheekbone… the hollow, delicate whorls of his ear.
Henry ran hot; he’d pushed the furs off in the night, and they draped around him now, covering a strip of thigh, heavy over his legs and his feet where they always turned cold. His chest furred in patches, a strip running teasingly with the light down into the lushness of the wolf-pelt, mingling with the brown-dark of it. His nipples were peaked, and pink, little nubs that made Hans touch the tip of his tongue to his own lips: first the upper, then the lower.
The sweep of Hal’s arse was goose-bumped where just the curve of it peeked at Hans, the rest coyly pressed into the mattress.
Sleep still clung to the edges of Hans’ mind, moth-balled and weak; it gave a honeyed indulgence to the rise of his cock and the gentle, clinging squeeze he gave it, sighing into the air so that it billowed in front of him. Undaunted by the chill, it tapped at his belly, red and sticky and somehow not urgent at all.
Gently, Hal snored, a little sigh-snort that ought not to have been endearing, should not have made something ache in Hans’ chest. He would wake soon, that meant: the knowledge was a warm, iron thing in Hans’ chest, worked over by repeated effort, worn with familiarity.
Hans let his pizzle go, not without some regret — but let Hal sleep, as long as he might. Strange, that moving quietly, silently — with skill he’d honed in the woods on journeys like this, and not like this at all — should be more intimate than the rough things he had done earlier, things that had put Henry on his knees, and then to sleep, like this: pink lips parted, the sleep of the innocent sinner. Careful, to ensure the shift of the bed didn’t jostle Henry awake, Hans slid free and pulled his braies on quickly, tying his hose up with neat, efficient movements. Hans’ own nipples pebbled now, protesting the loss of the bed’s heat, but he welcomed the bite of it.
Like that morning, like the bite that was still livid on his clavicle, pink and purple and red in the shape of Hal’s mouth, the sharp would help the sweetness bloom.
To the fireplace first; a poker sat by the hearth, where ash and mud messed together. Hans took it, the heft of it in his hand, and pushed the remnants into a pile. Careful work, again, building up a cone of logs and twigs, a little house like this one, to keep Hal’s body warm. Flint and tinder — the spark! Hans blew from pursed lips, soft, and sat back on his heels, letting the blossoming flames kiss his chest, his armpits, the front of his shins.
Next: a rifle through their saddlebags. He pulled the wine-skins free, their contents sloshing loud against snow-padded silence. A jug on the table, filled; a pinch of spice, and a place close by the fire, the pottery almost glowing with warmth. There was food yet, left carelessly on the table, where they’d got… Hans’ cheeks flamed, a little shame in the memory of how he’d pawed, tugged at Hal’s damp things, as his squire tried dutifully, diligently, to chew and unpack at once. How he’d pressed Hal into the side of the table, knowing Hal’s cock would be jammed between its edge and his own body, and whined needily in his ear.
“You wouldn’t leave me cold, would you, Hal, my squire, my flower? Not your—” the nip of an ear in careful teeth “—good lord?” And Hal’s groan, his acquiescence, his fierce surrender.
In the grate, the flames crept from one log to another, loving each scrap of wood until it cracked, until it sang.
Outside, the snow cracked under his boots, the leather protection from damp but not from chill. His chest was going pink already, smarting with the sting of it. The snow was heavy in the trees and over bushes, bundling so close he could hardly catch his breath if not for the open blue of the sky, like the flaws in Henry’s eyes. Hans trudged to the stables, letting the spade-work at the door warm his shoulders to a steady hum; inside, the horses nickered in greeting, and then in thanks.
When the feed was out and the water replaced, Hans turned his attention to the places where the stable smelt woody, warm, honest; he pulled the pitchfork from its rack and did what needed to be done, then left them champing in the warm. The deer hanging from the stake outside was cold as could be; it would keep a day or two, easily, and feed the castle when they returned to Christmas feasting. The snow made a good excuse to delay, and a fine help to stop the meat rotting; Hans had intended, anyway, to stay a night or two more, but it would help with convincing Hal, and explaining it away to Hanush, too.
Mutt had followed him from the stables, whining happily at his heels as Hans plunged his cold, cracked hands into the bucket by the front door, breath hissing from his teeth (there was beeswax in the saddlebags, perfumed with lavender and sage. He’d rub it into his own hands first, so they’d be soft as he worked it over Henry’s skin). Hans huffed, and splashed him with a sprinkle of water, laughing at the wide, betrayed eyes the dog cast.
“Alright,” he said, chuckling. “In you come, you beastie.”
Damp dog filled the room as Mutt stretched himself by the fire; Hans restrained himself from rolling his eyes to the Lord, and threw him a scrap from the table instead. Lazy, Mutt caught it with a snap of his jaws and let his head fall back, chewing in wolfish ecstasy.
“I saw that…” said Hal, amusement like wood-smoke in the air.
It was well past midday; the sun should not have risen, just hearing Henry’s voice, sleep-rough and laughing. Hans didn’t turn, though his mind painted the picture for him: Henry half out of the furs, indolent and luxurious and flushed with waking. Hans’ smile, for now, was just for himself: this moment of quiet pleasure.
“It’s the prerogative of a lord to reward his servants,” he said instead, and luxuriated himself in the joy at Henry’s snort. “Are you hungry?”
Henry shrugged, and Hans had to watch that; Hal didn’t notice, of course, but Hans let himself look openly anyway, at the slide of the muscles in his shoulders, the thick stretch of his ribs. Like a mirror, like a twin, one he loved more than himself, and as helplessly. “A little. I’ll—”
“No—stay there.”
Exquisite, how Hal froze, his muscles stopping almost without thought, even as his head cocked with curiosity.
“Let me,” Hans said, tongue numb-clumsy in his mouth, and went to the table. Hal frowned.
“What? Hans—”
“I said, let me!” Just a tiny fraction too sharp; Hans winced at the way it cracked, leaving his embarrassment naked. For the first time since he’d lifted the spade outside, his chest felt the cold. Henry grinned; the moment split.
“When,” Hal said, “have I ever let you win?”
And then it was a scrambling, stupid race to the table; Hans was there first, as Hal struggled with the furs, unaccountably tangled about his ankles and cock flapping in the cold of the cabin, but Henry’s hand made his shoulder and tugged him back just as he closed his fist around the hunk of cheese.
Henry’s back hit the bed again, Hans against his chest. Hans set his feet to the bed, wriggling and jerking an elbow back into Henry's stomach. Hans heard the oof of contact, felt himself grinning helplessly, and rolled from Hal’s grip.
“You—” Huffing, growl-laughing, Henry’s hand on his wrist, scrambling after him, thighs grappling for purchase, rolling back and forth in the sheets as Hans kicked back, fingers tight around their prize. A knee—up!—and Henry dodged as Hans knew he would, jewels safe from Hans’ gentle blow: but it was enough, enough for Hans to switch grips and throw his weight, and then he was atop Henry, triumphant, sunlight crowning him with gold.
Hal’s two wrists in Hans’ left fist, Henry still struggling a little as he laughed; Hans’ right opening, sweaty and probably disgusting, to force the cheese towards his mouth.
Hal turned his face away, wriggled. Hans pressed in closer, tapping, smearing cheese across Hal’s grin. Henry’s tongue streaked out, dragged crumbs inside even as he protested. “Don’t you d—” and that was all the gap Hans needed: in, between Hal’s teeth, and he had to take it, to chew.
Watching, Hans imagined the taste, sweet and nutty and rich, bursting on Hal’s tongue. Wanted, filthily, for it to be him. Imagined the satisfaction of the swallow, of hunger sated.
“Alright, then,” he said, shocked at how rough his own voice had gone. “Will you be quiet, and do as your lord commands?”
Hal’s eyes were still dancing with mirth, but his body had gone slack, unrolling beneath Hans. His cock, not quite so soft anymore, made him seem ludicrously naked between Hans’ hosed legs. “As my lord commands,” he repeated. A quick smile: “I am quite hungry, I suppose.” He parted his lips to accept the rest, and Hans felt the soft, rough pad of his tongue on his fingers, dragging the last of the cheese from them with unfailing patience. When Hans drew them out, damp, the air shocked them cold, startled as if only that made them realise the heat of Henry’s mouth.
“Stay there,” Hans said, and stood, cock ungainly between his thighs. The rest of the meat, and cheese, and bread: cold, but fresh. He wished it were summer, and there were grapes, too, for him to feed one by one to Hal, disappearing between his lips. Behind him, on the bed, he heard Henry shift to sit, pulling the furs up his chest.
“Right, you cur,” he said, and climbed onto the bed, folding one leg beneath himself. Henry took the plate. “Ungrateful beasts, the both of you. Eat, now.”
“You, too,” Hal said, mulishly, “since you already fed Mutt…” Hans rolled his eyes to cover his own delight, as they sat there in the silence and the warmth, the only sounds of chewing and swallowing and Mutt scratching himself by the crackling fire. Henry ate slowly, decisively, the way he did everything else, and Hans took pleasure in watching him: the flex of his forearm as he reached for the bread, brought it to his mouth; the way he chewed as if thinking, swallowed as if deciding something weighty. When, eventually, Hal was done, Hans let his hand fall to the bed beside them, stroking the fur by Hal’s thigh — but not his thigh itself. Not yet.
“Enough?” he said. Henry turned his head, and tipped it back to squint at him, considering Hans like his last mouthful.
“Enough,” said Hal, and then: “Thirsty. A little cold, maybe.” Hans felt his eyes on him like the fall of a hammer, as he cleared the trencher, and went to kneel by the fire. The wine was hot, almost too hot to touch, and Hans cursed his lack of forethought. His shirt lay nearby — he wrapped it round the handle, brought the jug, steaming, to the bed, and scooped two cups from the table as he went.
“Thanks, my lord!” Grinning, Hal sat up, took one, and reached for the jug. Hans stepped back, ignoring the look of confusion on Henry’s face. “What…” An eye roll, a gesture with the cup. “I’m not going to have to fight you for this, too, am I?”
“No,” Hans said, unable to explain, and dropped to one knee, ready to pour.
It was almost funny, how Henry almost dropped the cup, blanching a little, if it hadn’t made Hans’ heart ache with pointless regret. “Hans!” he said, and sounded so much like Hanush for a moment that Hans made a face. “You’re a lord, Hans, you oughtn’t—”
“No,” Hans said again. “I’m not a lord here, Hal.” Between his palms, the jug burned. Henry was still pale, a little angry, even, chasing the shock away.
“You’re always a lord,” Henry said. “You can’t stop. I don’t mean ordering—” He added, seeing Hans frown and go to speak. “—I know you’d never order me, here. Well.” A flush started on his neck, rising to his ears. “Not any way I— Anyway.”
Throat cleared. “You are what you are,” he said, simply. “And I’m… and you needn’t lower yourself to meet me. It doesn’t change anything.”
Hans bit his tongue, iron taste smoky with the smell of the spices in the jug. “Alright then. I’m your lord, indeed.” He forced himself to meet Hal’s eyes, wide and earnest. “A lord in love, Hal.” And he didn’t stop, didn’t wait for Henry’s in-drawn breath to become words. “Haven’t you read the romances? A knight kneels to his beloved, begs for favour at his lover’s feet. And you’re mine.” He shrugged, as if it were a small thing. “Let me.”
Hal swallowed, heavily. His fingers clenched on the cup, and then he settled back against the pillows, smiling tightly. “Alright...” Hans poured for him, the ache of his knee on the boards a steady, thrumming support, his heart hammering so that Hal must have been able to see it through the skin of his chest. Hal watched the wine arc, scarlet and fragrant, and didn’t mention the drops that spilled from Hans’ trembling grip, mussed into the furs.
Instead, he sat and watched as Hans left, put the jug down, and picked up what lay next to it. Watched as he hesitated.
“Come here?” Henry said softly, as if there were nothing weak at all in asking for what you wanted — and Hans went, hose and all… but lingered back a little, within reach of a fingertip and no more. The rose he proffered was nothing: five-petaled, white, yellow-smear of the stamen trailing pollen over the velvet, and the thorns of the stem pricking Hans’ fingers to make them red-touched.
“I—” Once again, his words deserted him. He ground his teeth. Stupid: Hal was no wench, to be wooed with flowers and weak poetry, let alone this hedgerow doggerel.
Evidently Henry thought so too: his brow furrowed as Hans stuttered to silence. He did dip his head, though, when Hans gestured pleadingly, and let Hans tuck the stem behind his ear, the bloom bright and unspoilt and not as bright, somehow, as Hal’s eyes. Henry put one hand up to his ear, the other catching Hans’ withdrawing one.
“This is all…” Henry gestured again, at their little nest, tucked away. “The fur… the food, the…” His fingertips lingered over the petals behind his ear, petting the same way he did at Hans’ skin. “I’m not complaining,” he said, quickly, and kissed Hans’ knuckles, cheeks as pink as his cracked lips.
“Aren’t you?” returned Hans, forcing his eyes up, laughing despite his mortification. “Funny… I hear you talking, and that usually means—”
But Hal wasn’t to be baited. “I’m not. But I’m also not… it’s too much, Hans. I’m no lady-love. You needn’t… woo me into bed, as if I’ll let you tup me for a bolt of cloth and a few jewels.”
Hans laughed, despite himself. “As if I’d pay you that much! — or you’d accept it.”
“Are you saying I’m cheap, Lord Capon?” Henry said, fingers toying with Hans’, pulling him closer.
Hans’ breath caught, his cock reminding him abruptly how few clothes they were wearing, and how the bed still smelt of them. He dropped his free hand to the ties of his hose, pulled them both loose, and kicked them down. “No, I think you were, actually.”
“Then what is this, Hans?” Hal ducked away from Hans’ attempt at a kiss, the petals of the rose brushing the tip of his eyebrow.
Hans stared. Twisted his wrist, quickly, so Hal’s hand was caught, instead, the two of them pressing against one another, half an arm wrestle. “The… the prerogative of a lord to reward his servants, Hal…” His weight let him press Henry back until his knuckles brushed Henry’s clavicle, a fluttering of skin on skin. He leaned into it, pulled his braies free, one hole at a time, while Hal’s pulse beat in his throat, a caught thing. Hans ducked his head and pressed a kiss, open-mouthed, to the scar on Henry’s shoulder, livid still, though the summer was long gone. “And besides…” He mouthed up to Hal’s ear, feeling the way all Henry’s strength bunched beneath him, let his breath drag hot against the shell of it. “You’re a little like my lady-love, Lancelot.”
Henry caught his breath, his hips twitching against the spread of Hans’ thighs. Hans kissed his earlobe: the tiny scar, even here. “Look at you,” he whispered, feeling drunk though he’d had no wine at all. “Opening your thighs for me.”
With a groan, Hal fisted a hand in Hans’ hair, and dragged him to his lips. His kiss was messy, musty, damp with his enthusiasm, and Hans let himself be swept into it, let him lick like that damned dog of his, hovering above him calmly.
Well, calmly enough. The saints themselves couldn’t have stayed stone, he swore it. Hans counted himself strong enough for staying still, for waiting until Henry was panting, his abdomen fluttering as he tried to hold himself up for the kiss. Then, when Henry was just starting to flag, Hans squeezed his grip tight, and took back control. He kissed slow, long, the way girls liked it, the way that made them go soft and wet beneath him.
Hal went soft, too, letting Hans move him confidently, smoothly, letting Hans part his lips over and over again, his tongue dipping in to meet Hal’s with lazy, sweet swipes. Releasing Hal’s wrists, Hans ran his hand down his arm, palming the swell of Henry’s biceps, thumbing at the scrape of the scar, then down his chest: over the nipple, so that Henry panted a little into Hans’ mouth, and down the flat of his ribs, one bump after another, one raised edge of skin teasing Hans’ fingers, then the next. He grasped at Hal’s hipbone, thumbing at its jut, at where it was softened by the drag of his thighs. His mouth was dry. He’d stopped kissing Henry, was staring at the incongruously arousing slant of bone, the crease between belly and thigh, and Hal was staring at him, and—
Hans made a strangled sound, and pulled away.
Hal’s protest turned into a muffled cry as Hans swallowed his cockhead, red and bulbous, disappearing behind Hans’ lips like the rim of a wine flask. Hans swallowed around it, a little drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, and sucked once — twice — then pulled away to mouth over Henry’s hip, fingers wrapping tight around the base, twisting as Henry swore.
Hal’s body bent under him like a bowstring, trembling when Hans scraped his teeth in the sheltered, vulnerable apse of his thighs. “Hans…”
Hans replied with a twist of his fist, a slow drag to milk a little pearly-white from the tip of Hal’s cock, a little dribble that he had to lean in and taste, salt on his tongue. Henry watched him, fists tight in the wolf-fur, and groaned.
“Yes, my lord?” The shape of it was good in Hans’ mouth. Above him, Henry gasped.
“Shurrup.”
Hans licked his lips carefully, bit gently down, dragged his fist slowly up Hal’s shaft again. “My lord?” Kisses were hard when you were grinning, it turned out. He let his other hand drift down, stroking Henry’s trembling flanks like a horse, pretending to soothe him. He dropped his head to lave at Henry’s furred balls, let his thumb follow his tongue, and with his index finger tested where Hal was spread for him.
God above! — it was still wet. Hans found himself humping the mattress; he wasn’t sure when he’d started, but it didn’t seem possible to stop now. Not when his finger was pressing, so lightly, and feeling the easy, eager give of his beloved’s hole, the dampness sliding free with it, slicking his hand so that it felt like what it was: a return, a return to a memory of sweetness.
“Let me have you, my lord,” he said softly, feeling Hal tremble above him, feeling his cock like an iron rod against the bed, feeling his fingers twist into Hal’s hole: two of them, because he was greedy. “My love, Hal, let me—”
“Yeah…” Henry panted it, spreading his legs so far it seemed as if he would tear himself apart. Hans couldn’t look away, fascinated, dripping with it: his own spend, the oil from the morning, marking where he’d been. “Yeah, c’mon… Hans. Hans…”
Hans pulled shaking fingers free, put his hand down to grip at his cock when he rose to his knees. It was a cruel thing, the cold of the air, the end of the humping — but Hal was twisting onto his hands and knees, dropping to his forearms and shoving his arse towards Hans like he needed it just as much, and Hans caught his hips, held him firm.
The first touch of his prick against Hal’s hole was almost enough to finish, just then. There was something about the way his cock twitched, spat white drops out to mingle with the filth already there, the way a press of his hips made Hal’s arsehole wink, tugged wide and then shrinking, twitching as if desperate.
Hans breathed deep, ran his right hand up Henry’s hip, over his ribs and back again. Gentled them both. Then:
Heat, and wet, and God, such tightness, inch after inch of it, until he was panting, strangled with it.
Henry, back bowing, keening short, high noises, then grunting as Hans bottomed out, came to rest with his curls against Hal’s cheeks, feeling Hal’s balls swaying against his pelvis with their movements. Hans had dropped his cock, hands fallen to Henry’s hips, one tight, the other running restless over his stomach, his flanks, the base of his prick. He had dropped his face to Henry’s shoulder blade and the scar there, too, the one that matched his own. He didn’t kiss, just left his mouth open, panting against Hal’s skin.
Their breaths, their pants, the sweat-slide of their skin: together. The embrace of the muffling snow, the crackling of the fire. The spice of the wine on Hal’s breath, when he turned his face to Hans’ for a kiss.
Hans couldn’t quite reach, but he gave it anyway, waiting still until Hal whined and shifted his hips, thighs braced. He’d ridden less patient horses than Henry, and more vicious ones. He could wait. He planted a sloppy kiss on Hal’s ear, then let his hand slip round Hal’s cock.
The best part about fucking someone his own size, perhaps, was that he needn’t keep himself entirely braced above Hal, afraid of crushing a maid with his bulk. No, Henry could hold them both up, if need be, and Hans could work into him deep, pull back as he dragged his palm down Hal’s shaft, sweat-slick and rough, and savour Hal’s groan as he pushed back in.
“Hans…” Henry’s voice caught as Hans did it again. “I…”
“I have you,” Hans muttered, dizzy with the pleasure of it, watching his cock come out, smeared with slickness, old and new, pushing it back in where it belonged. “I have you. You take me so well, you know?”
Hal only groaned, pushing into his hand, into his hips.
Hans felt his pace quicken, his grip tighten. The rush of impending release was building already, so fast he was a little ashamed of it. “You do. You… Lord above, Hal, you… Oh, my lord…” Half address, half prayer, and somehow he avoided coming yet, as Hal writhed beneath him and said back, like an echo:
“Hans, please…”
Hans bit, savagely gentle, at the back of Hal’s neck, where his armour would cover, and felt them both spasm with denied need. “What do you call me?” He said, soft, madness like wine. “Oh, love, is that how you—?”
“Lord Capon!” Henry ground it out, defiant, into the furs, and then, helpless and true: “My lord, my… Hans!”
A thrill rocked through Hans, sending him barrelling towards the edge and dragging Hal with him, his body as familiar as his own.
“Look at that,” he said, glorying in it, inhaling the scent of crushed petals behind Hal’s ear. “The flower of all the world’s knights,” he whispered, watching shame’s red bloom over Hal’s neck, “doing—” a thrust, deep “me—” another, and Henry’s grunts were like an animal, like he was scraping pleasure out of him with his nails “homage!”
“My lord...! Please...”
“Please…” Hans answered, unable to stop himself. “My lord, my Hal, please...? Now...?”
As if he’d only been awaiting permission, Hal came, clench after clench around Hans, shudder after shudder shooting jets pearly across the spread fur. Hans rode him through it, chasing his own pleasure on its heels, spiralling down into heat and warmth.
Afterwards, they panted together, sticky and softening. Henry’s arms were trembling under him, their thighs shaking like a pair. Hans mouthed idly at the sweat on Henry’s hairline, until a groan made him move. Up, pulling out, making a face at the slug-like slide, the helpless flop of his prick onto his thigh. Beneath him, Hal let himself fall, uncaring of the mess.
Hans winced. “Hal….”
“Don’t care,” Henry muttered into the skins, voice muffled. Between his thighs, Hans’ release leaked and puddled. “’M your lady love, aren't I?”
And that was Hal, after: lazy and indolent, and it left Hans with a warmth deeper than the release, as he dragged himself to the washbasin, sweat cooling in the air, and back. Henry only grunted when Hans brought the cloth to his thighs, but he spread them, sweet, the careless, beautiful trust in it sticking in Hans’ throat.
“Roll over, Hal,” he said, soft, and watched his man follow his order, rolling away from the stickiness and onto the clean side of the bed. Wiped him clean, and tugged the soiled fur free. There were enough, still. He might, perhaps, have gone too far with them.
It was worth it, though, with the firelight throwing shadows on the walls as the winter light slanted towards evening. Hal’s body was like a question mark, one Hans could fit himself into, like an answer.
“C’mere,” Henry mumbled, and tugged Hans close, dragging him until his head was over Hal’s chest, over his heart. Hal’s lips were in his hair.
It was so precious a thing, to be enwrapped by warmth, by safety, with the cold and the dark outside timber walls. Hans let himself drift.
When, at length, Henry raised his head, Hans turned his face, too, nuzzling into the fuzz of Hal’s chest, just to let him know he wasn’t alone.
“I’m thirsty,” Hal said, his hand moving in Hans’ hair.
“It’s on the table, you harridan,” Hans said, muffled into Hal’s chest. “What do you think I am, your servant?”
Henry’s chuckle shook his ribs, echoing in the bones of Hans’ skull. His lips touched Hans’ forehead again.
“Your lord, aren’t I?” he said, laughing, because he never could let a thing go, “and your lady love, I thought.” Hans looked up. The thorns from the rose had scratched Henry’s cheek, and left a thin dribble of scarlet there and behind his ear. Hans pushed himself up on one elbow, tasted it from that tender, secret place, the intermingling of sweat and blood and joy.
“My lord,” he said, in reply, feeling stupid and sentimental and all the things they accused him of. “The flower of all the world.”
Henry grinned, and patted Hans’ arse, squeezing just enough to sting. “And you’ll be mine, Galehaut… just as soon as you fetch that wine again.”
The sun slid its liquid way down the horizon, the wind shivering through branches, knocking gently at the opening of dens. Soft, soft, from the cold reaches of heaven’s vault, came the snow.