Chapter Text
Snow sizzles and melts beneath Flame's feet as he walks through a taiga forest, revealing the evergreen grass buried under two feet of snow. His heat has carved a path through the layers of snow left by a blizzard.
The blizzard, the reason he had to wait an extra day to come searching. Flame's hope of a clue to Wemmbu's location died when he saw the thick white blanket covering the forest, obscuring details and any tracks.
The snow deserves no patience. It is merely an obstacle.
Flames lick up his arm, and embers dance on the ends of his hair. The surrounding chill cannot permeate his shield of blaze-heat.
He searches.
Melting snow reveals a disturbance underneath. Trampled berry bushes and a few broken branches lead him to a hole in the ground.
It seems unnatural. Too small for a cave entrance.
It could be a trap.
But no one could know he was coming, so it couldn't be for him.
It isn't well-hidden enough to be the work of a professional. Maybe it's already sprung?
He pots up before approaching, anyway.
Flame lowers himself down with his pickaxe as an anchor to the surface. He doesn't want to rush in if this is some trap.
The cave is quiet, and dark. The snow near him melts, dripping steadily into the open space.
He uses the light of his fire to gauge the size of the mined area and finds it small. Grooves in the walls and a sloppy shape say the space was made quickly. Desperately.
He tenses when he sees something on the floor, pressed as close to a rounded corner as physically possible.
It's a person.
They don't move to strike at him, don't taunt or even move.
Could they be asleep?
Flame unhooks his pickaxe from dirt and drops completely into the cave.
He approaches the person cautiously, first holding a fiery hand out to see them better.
Purple–
"Wemmbu?"
It has to be. It is.
Painfully recognizable purple hair spills out from behind a scaled wing. Wemmbu's position is defensive, but he hasn't acknowledged Flame's presence.
Something is wrong.
Flame kneels in front of the dragon, one hand still holding a flame like it's a physical object.
"Wemmbu?" he tries again, unsheathing his sword to tap the handle against the wing that covers his rival.
Nothing.
No exaggerated complaints, quips, or even a groan.
A few scales clatter against stone when he prods the wing, gently lifting it until he can see the other's face.
Wemmbu is blue and grey.
His signature bright purples have faded into washed-out, cool-toned greys. His lips are blue.
Flame touches pallid skin with his unlit hand and nearly retracts at the ice-cold that meets his palm.
He knows he runs hot, but he understands what general temperature other creatures live at. End creatures run cold, but not this cold.
Dancing light vanishes from the stone walls as he extinguishes the flame in his hand. It's too hot. He needs warm.
He pulls Wemmbu closer to himself to hear shallow breathing. The movement doesn't wake him.
The dragon doesn't shake or shiver. Flame cools his fire into a gentler warmth, avoiding temperature shock or burns to his rival.
Getting Wemmbu out of the cave is easier said than done, as most things are.
Flame hoists the dead weight up onto his back and scales the walls. He liberated Wemmbu of his heavy netherite armour with the help of an ender chest.
Most people would have given up and left him there, but Flame is not most people.
He's not letting Wemmbu get out of their rivalry that easily. What kind of victory would that be?
The trek from his base was easier without the weight of a whole person on his back.
Swiftness potions help the process along, stolen from the other's pockets since Flame wasn't wasting any more resources than necessary on this.
Chilled, strangled breathing whistles past his ears while he walks, impossible to ignore. It isn't normal, but shallow and pained.
Wemmbu's temperature starts to improve noticeably as they reach the border of the badlands Flame calls home. Wemmbu shudders and shakes, still asleep.
Ashen greets them when Flame opens the door, wagging his tail and barking at his owner.
"Ashen," Flame greets in turn.
Flame's base is warm. It is as expected from a base located in a desert and inhabited by a netherborn.
Ashen steps out of Flame's way and tilts his head at the newcomer on his back. Not a stranger, nor a friend, but Flame wouldn't bring danger to their home.
Flame lays Wemmbu down on his couch to get a better look at him.
He's shivering, and his colour has improved. Natural undertones resurface as the chilled blue-grey of frost retreats.
Flame hesitates to ignite a spark in the nearby fireplace.
Hypothermia is a delicate state, and it takes time to recover from. He needs to warm him more gradually.
He leaves his living room, with Ashen sitting guard by the couch, to grab some unused blankets out of his storage. He shakes the dust from them before returning to his rival's side.
Wemmbu slowly curls in on himself under the blankets. His wings curl around him to cover the majority of his body, his arms and legs tucked as close to his torso as possible.
He's still shivering, so Flame leaves him be to heat up on his own for a bit.
Flame's kitchen is adjacent to the living room. No wall stands between them, so Flame doesn't have to worry about keeping an eye on Wemmbu while he makes dinner.
Orange-red sunlight only filters into the base in the evenings, due to its position partially in a mountain.
It's a reminder of time, which can seem stagnant in such a calm environment.
Ashen eats his dinner, some raw steak, by the couch. The dutiful hound seems unwilling to leave their guest's side, unsure of their purpose.
The evening is uneventful. Wemmbu still hasn't woken when moonlight replaces sun, and Flame lights a fire before going to bed.