Merry Yule, Rory. (Rory and Rist- The Frosted Fae Series)

Rist shuffled from foot to foot, hands shoved casually into his argent trouser pockets. He looked as if he were waiting for something or someone, so Rory abandoned the walk to the training field and approached him cautiously with an arched brow. There was something amiss in his chiselled face, a hint of playful amusement that flickered into trouble and mischief. 

If she didn’t know better, she might have suspected he learnt the look from a certain redhead twin who specialised in creating undiluted mayhem. 

Rory still set that thought to linger in her head, knowing too well that Wren loved chaos of any degree. Even from the tiniest speck of surprise to the largest blast of badness. Most times his pranks were harmless enough to find humour. 

For the seven days after their nuptials, Wren followed Rist around the corridors like a yippy hound on its master's heels, waiting for a treat. The entire time, the male sang bawdy tunes that informed the few Fae that wandered the castle how the Prince was no longer pure. It ended when Rist grew more than annoyed with the musical information everyone knew to be untrue, and Wren found most of his clothes buried deep in a chuck of ice. 

And to add onto his fair punishment for the ludicrous ballads of a royal’s untarnished virtue gone awry, Rist left the most absurdly small ice pick for the twin to use in the retrieval of his garments. One that was minuscule compared to a miner’s actual tool. Rory pondered if her mate had it made specifically for this reason and this reason alone, considering it was almost impractical. 

Wren spent four hours chipping away at the block of ice, sweat pouring down his back from the exhausting work under the sun. During his grueling, physical labour, the Prince summoned himself a chair and sank into it as he watched the entire thing go down. Including asking the house for a chilled glass of spiked lemonade, sipping it loudly on purpose as he witnessed the twin work away at the glacier. 

As if he had nothing better to do. 

Rory saw the entire thing unfolding from the main room balcony, returning every so often to see how long her mate would keep it up. She had to admit, it was hilarious to watch her friend pull each individual piece out of the snow, complain about how I can never wear this again because the water ruined the elaborate design, and then chuck them onto the slowly growing pile he’d already pulled out. 

Even Crispin stopped by one or twice to see what the loud, constant, chipping noise was that rang about the blue palace. “Getting even?” He merely asked, a bored expression painted on his face as if this was the normal life of the King of the Fae. 

“Mhmhm.” She agreed, and he went on his way. 

Something about duties with the townsfolk and reordering the maps to correctly record the new name of his parcel of land. He’d written letters to Cierian, Anfisa, and Conrí about the name of his territory to make sure it was added to their maps. 

When at last, Wren was beyond bored with mining for his raiments, he turned to the Prince and apologised with a watery smile, promising to never make fun of his manhood again. Rist simply waved his hand in the air, and the chair beneath him as well as the empty glass from his hand vanished into thin air. 

The Prince whooshed away the pick in Wren’s hands and summoned the beck and call of winter to his might. Instead of the arctic chunk disappearing into his skin like most of his enchantments did, it formed perfectly round balls, no larger than a sweet, ripe peach. 

Wren looked unsure as Rist handed him one and then called for Rory to join them in the courtyard. She did, only to find additional creations from her mate. Half circles filled the yard, a wide hole in the center of them that was slightly larger than the twenty balls that Rist piled by his feet. They’d been stacked up high in formation, and she eyed them curiously. 

Rist reached out through the mental connection with his brother as well, and when Crispin came down, he began to explain the rules. 

Each of them would receive five of the snow spheres, speckled with frozen flakes on the inside of the glass-like ball. There were ten hoops in an orderly fashion and whoever managed to get the most of their balls through all of them, won. There was no prize, he claimed, for it was only for the sake of putting aside his differences with Wren and enjoying the chilled afternoon in fun. 

It was hard to get a hang of the game at first considering the ice balls were very slippery and rolled past the half circles with ease. But once she figured out a technique, she was on a roll. 

Literally. 

Three out of her five balls made it in. The other two skidded off and fell into the river, from a curved hand that spun too far.  

Crispin succeeded in getting two out of his five, finding extreme happiness in even that many making it. Poor Wren lost the game, incomparably when only one of his spheres barely rolled to a halt in exactly the middle hole. Rist, of course, being the inventor of the game and creator of the supplies, won. Four out of five of his balls soared through the circles perfectly, and the only reason that Rory believed he didn’t cheat was because it wasn’t all five. 

Or maybe he did that on purpose, so no one would look his way when he won. But she cherished the game, and they named it Iceball. Another thing for them to inevitably bet upon when things got boring once again. 

Things rarely ended up becoming dull. 

So, when Rory spotted the suspicious look on her mate’s face after finding him casually hanging about the hallways, she knew it was trouble. 

When she neared on wary toes, his dark head snapped to attention. She paused. Immediately she noticed three things upon his sudden movement. 

One, there was a troublesome smirk plastered upon his face that only grew with each of her steps that brought her closer to him. One that she knew better than to trust. 

Two, he stopped his fidgeting within the second he picked up on her sounds. Which meant he was undoubtedly waiting for her. 

And three, there was a ridiculous bundle of green leaves above his head, hooked with a red ribbon from the lower part of the ceiling. Where he was standing directly under. 

A prank, no doubt. 

“Do I want to ask what you currently have planned?” She halted her gait and folded her arms over her chest, the sun-shaded fabric rustling with the movement. “Let me rephrase that. Do I need to know the details of your clearly morose plan here?” 

His trickster grin only widened into a feline smile. “It wouldn’t hurt to come over here and find out for yourself.” 

“And am I in any danger if I do? I need to know if this is something worth risking my life for. Curiosity only drags me so far, after all.” Rory rolled her frozen water eyes at him, at his ridiculousness. There were moments when a child-like spirit appeared in him, youthful and troublesome. 

“Just get over here, Thorn.” Rist gritted his teeth and untucked his hand from his pocket, reaching out for her. She didn’t move, allowing his hand to wrap around her forearm and tug her to him. 

“I’m here. What do you have tucked up your sleeve now? And what is that?” Rory pointed with a single finger up to the dried plant above their heads. 

“Mistletoe. It’s a mortal tradition that I borrowed from Cierian.” He explained to her slightly annoyed and amused look. Only she could pull off both emotions at the same time. “He explained it after a questioning look that I had upon hearing about it, and ultimately after finding out more information on the mortal thing, I decided to test it out for myself.” 

“A human tradition?” She lifted her head to peer at the moss-coloured leaves that rounded off, bundled together at the top tightly with a perfectly tied bow. One only Levana could pull off with ease. They were around, wanting to enjoy the festive tidings of Yulemas that crept around the corner. It wouldn’t be long before a great pine tree would be erected in the middle of the main room with pointy fir needles and celebratory decorations. 

“It’s festive around this time of year.” 

“How does it work?” Rory unfolded her arms but continued to examine the mistletoe. 

She wracked her brain for any of the long-forgotten traditions of her father, even if they were all before his untimely death. The first couple of years after he was gone were the worst. When she’d wanted to find a fir tree to decorate, her mother hadn’t budged from her spot in the rocking chair. The creaking of the wood against the floorboards reminded her of a death rattle, one that eerily sank into her bones. 

Rory had covered herself in their warmest furs, taken a knife and an axe that was far too large for her own hands and trekked out into the woods beyond their cottage. It’d taken her two hours to find a tree with enough branches to look the part, but also small enough to fit inside their cottage entrance and for her to be able to carry with her tiny body. 

After an hour of swinging the metal blade at the tree, it finally fell. A rope was tied around the trunk and she’d struggled to drag it all the way back to her home, sweating so much that the furs lining her form had to be washed thoroughly after she peeled them from her skin. 

They didn't have much in means of decor for the tree, but after she’d found the thick stump that they usually propped it up with, Rory had dug through her parent's room to find the square box of supplies that usually came out during this season. 

Tinsel in silver strands, a few bobbles on wire hooks, and a bent snowflake that went at the very top of the tree. Considering her short height and her age, a chair had to be used as a stand to get all the way up to the tip. When she’d put the seat away and stared up at the one festive thing in the entire house, it’d made her sad. 

Because instead of her father lifting her up onto his shoulders to place the snowflake on the tree, she’d done it herself. Instead of her mother's dark chocolate mixed into heated milk, the one smell that floated about the house as they laughed and sang songs together, the smell of decay and rubble filled her nostrils from the ever-sinking shape of the cottage. Instead of sitting on the floor by the flickering fireplace as she horribly wrapped the gifts they gave to each other, there was straw and dirt under the tree. As well as pine needles littered everywhere from where she’d dragged the tree in. 

There were wooden splinters in her hands that she painstakingly pulled out, individually. That was the last year she went out into the wilderness to scrounge up the Yulemas cheer. 

Rory blinked, trying to keep the miserable memory at bay. That had been so long ago, and now she was celebrating it with her new family. Her found family, in the oddest of ways. 

“I can’t think of any traditions that involve greenery other than a mammoth of a tree in the center of the room.” She mumbled as she peered up at the viridian leaves. “And as unfamiliar as I may be with anything even remotely related to plants, that is most definitely not a tree.” 

“You’d be correct in that statement, it is not a tree, Thorn. You bring your partner under it and then give them something.” His lengthy canines peeked out from under his raised lips. She brought her head back down to meet his gaze. 

“I swear if this is some way to give me your di-” 

Her sentence was cut off as he leaned over her, capturing her moving mouth in his. His strong arms wrapped around her until he held her tightly, drawing her into his wonderful coldness. It slithered and seeped through her until it found the matching magic in her veins and settled happily. 

She could get used to this one tradition, perhaps. 

Rist greedily nudged her for more, asking for her to open her mouth to him. She let him without complaint, enjoying the coy new ways he found to kiss her, touch her. He didn’t try to slide his tongue in, nor did he try to deepen the kiss into the thing that usually led to a blazing inferno beginning in her core.

 It was simple, sweet, and passionate. 

“I think I like this tradition.” Rory murmured between long kisses as he refused to let up. She didn’t want him to. “Even if it's a bit silly.” 

His answering chuckle rumbled against her chest, sparking something between her legs. 

Damned Fae males. 

“Perhaps I should place mistletoe elsewhere, have you kiss me there.” He suggested with a cocky flint to his blue and black eyes. 

“Only if you want to lose that part.” She uttered and dragged his massive head back down to meet hers, continuing the tradition that she admittedly enjoyed. 

Rory kissed him deeply, unable to help the smile that radiated through her at how damned much she loved him.