They call him by many names - the prophet, the fate bearer, the one that bends reality - but none of them are exactly right, because that’s how humans work.

They ask for things once, sometimes twice and occasionally thrice, but nothing else matters the moment they get what they want, much less the name of a being they do not understand.

But then again, they’re not exactly wrong.

“What do you want?”

He is easy to find, if you know where to look.

Cold. His eyes are glazed over with a coldness and you see yourself reflecting in that frozen gaze.

You hesitate because to be honest you aren’t sure what it is you wanted, why have you decided to turn the corners, climb the fences just to get here? But you did. And you still don’t know why.

“To see if you were real.” 

You see him pause, observing you quietly as he runs a hand through his dark hair before turning away, seemingly uninterested.

“That’s what they all say.”

He does not make any move to speak after that, simply standing, detached, cold.

The silence caresses your skin as if in comfort, smoothing your frazzled soul and taking away your jagged edges. Bereft of any wind the leaves hung limp until they fell of their own accord, there was no whispering noise or rustling.

It’s as if nature is standing still for their sake, holding its breath for what is to come from this entwinement of fate.

“I guess I am kind of cold.” 

He looks up, “And what will you pay?”

You expect to chase after a legend, to go home empty once again, but for once you find what you have been looking for and yet, you become a loss once more.

Digging through your pockets you pull out a crumpled dollar bill, some keys whose locks you’ve lost, and a silver earring you were meaning to throw away.

He glances over at what you have to offer and smiles. It’s been a long time since people have come to him so bare and true, with nothing to offer but a glimpse of the life they have lived.

It’s been long since people have asked for intangible things.

He holds out his large hands and you placed your hands with all that you had to offer, in his.

You think back to how long it’s been since you last touched another and even though his hands are cold, you could feel the warmth it was beginning to bring.

He cups your hands together and closes his eyes. You follow suit.

And when he opens them once more, the items in your hands have transformed to a single flower, so red it looks as if it’s bleeding.

“Plant it in ashes and water it with dew,” he pulls away and the cold returns, “Eat the blossoms, they’ll keep you warm.”

And they do.

Just not long enough.

 

---

 

“Hey.”

He looks up from lighting his cigarette, a gaze warmer than before dancing behind his dark eyes and he manages a small smile, one that makes you warmer than any flower ever could.

“Oh, it’s you again.”

It is nice to see him again, his eyes that are now warmer than before. To be in this comforting silence, together.

But you don’t tell him because how could you?

Instead you look away, pulling the thin cotton draped over you closer, hiding your face behind the hood, “I can’t sleep.”

You don’t see the look of temporary disappointment, don’t see the sad hunch of his broad shoulders instead you hear it in his voice and your heart leaps.

“And what have you brought me?”

He moves closer and you smell the cigarette smoke on him, faint but lingering. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin and you close your eyes for a second, basking in the company of another.

Pulling out a drawing, you hand over the weathered piece of paper, the sense of attachment making you falter, “It’s the first person I’ve ever made.”

He takes it without hesitation.

“Here,” he holds out his hands once more, taking yours into them and sliding a ring onto your finger. He laughs when he sees that it is too big for any of fingers and it is the most beautiful thing. 

So quiet, so fleeting that the flattering snow could have drowned it out but you heard it because he had meant it to be for you.

“Twist it three times to be free of worry.”

And you were.

But only for a while.

 

---

 

He is just finishing up his cigarette when you turn the corner, his gaze bittersweet.

“Welcome back.”

You are the one to close the distance this time around, seeking out his eyes, looking for the warmth that you can no longer feel.

His eyes are freezing over at the edges once more and you stare, sad yet knowing.

“I’m scared. I feel so trapped by the world and I don’t know what to do.”

He gives you a warm smile but it doesn’t reach, holds your cheeks in his hands but doesn’t feel.

“And what is the price for help?”

You reach out and held his face in your hands, brushing his lips lightly before moving to kiss him, a light, chaste kiss so faint you can convince yourself it didn’t happen.

“A first kiss.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink but merely stares and you could see yourself reflecting in his eyes and him in yours.

He recognizes the sadness in them, the likes of his and he turns away.

He is not fond of goodbyes.

So he moves to kiss you, deeply, yearningly and it was nothing short of bittersweet farewells.

Breaking away, he looks into your eyes once more the same way you look into his but doesn’t find what he wants.

You your lips if only to taste him one last time but as he leaves, he slips off his cloak and tugs it around you, “Take my cloak.”

“Wrap it tight and spin three times.”

This time, he walks away before you, a little broken, a little less.

They call him by many names - the wanderer, the lonely, the eternal soul - and they were all right because that was all that he was, a lonely wanderer lost in eternity.

“You will be free.”

And you were.