The Frozen River Crossing

By Jamie F. Bell

Reborn into a ridiculous novel, Rhys attempts to outrun a predetermined tragic fate, only to find himself cornered by the novel's 'dark anti-hero' on a treacherous frozen river.

The crack came from beneath his left boot. A sound like a shotgun blast echoing across the frozen expanse of the Blackwood River, stolen by the wind before it could truly reverberate. Rhys froze, one foot lifted, his breath puffing out in frantic, uneven clouds that immediately clawed at the air and vanished. Below him, the ice groaned, a deep, unsettling complaint from something ancient and unwilling to break.

He remembered the novel, bits and pieces of the prologue, the way the 'protagonist' (a simpering fool with an inexplicably loyal cadre of admirers) had described this very river. A suicide mission in winter. A fool's errand. And here Rhys was, the biggest fool of all, trapped between the crumbling edge of his escape and a potential plunge into water colder than any grave. All because Lord Beaumont’s youngest son, a pustule-faced seventeen-year-old with a disturbing fondness for taxidermy, had somehow decided Rhys, of all people, was his destined bride.

The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it made his teeth ache. He'd died, once, from a broken heart – a proper, cinematic sort of agony involving rain and a deserted city street – and woke up here, in the body of a minor character named Rhys who was supposed to simply *fade away* after a disastrous arranged marriage plot. Fading away meant, in this world's terms, being exiled to a remote, snow-bound estate where he'd presumably wither from boredom or, worse, Beaumont's advances. This, he had decided, was worse than death. A second death, this time by extreme cringe.

“Don’t move.”

The voice, deep and resonant, cut through the wind and his panicked thoughts like a shard of ice. Julian. Of course. The novel’s designated ‘dark anti-hero,’ meant to be the brooding, dangerous foil to the actual protagonist, not… this. Not his own personal, inescapable shadow. Rhys hadn't even heard him approach. Julian moved like the winter wind itself, silent and inevitable.

Rhys squeezed his eyes shut for a second, a desperate, childish wish for Julian to simply disappear. When he opened them, Julian was closer than before, standing on the bank, a dark, imposing silhouette against the pale, bruised winter sky. His coat, dark wool heavy with recent snow, seemed to absorb all light. There was no casualness to Julian’s posture, only a coiled tension, a predatory stillness.

“I told you not to move,” Julian repeated, his voice lower now, almost a murmur against the whistling wind, but it carried an undeniable weight. Rhys felt it, a physical pressure against his chest, making his breath catch.

“I… I didn’t,” Rhys stammered, his own voice thin and reedy, completely alien to the calm, rational man he remembered being. His heart hammered a wild rhythm against his ribs, a drumbeat of pure adrenaline. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but his feet felt glued to the cracking ice. The cold bit at his exposed cheeks, a vicious sting. He could feel the fine hairs on his arms standing on end, not just from the frost, but from Julian’s presence.

Julian took a slow step, his heavy boots crunching on the frozen earth of the riverbank, then another, onto the very edge of the ice. Rhys’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare,” he whispered, the words barely escaping his lips. “It’s… it’s not stable.”

A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of Julian’s mouth. It wasn’t a smile, not exactly. More like a brief, fleeting acknowledgement of Rhys’s panic. His gaze, dark and intense, never left Rhys’s face. It felt like a physical touch, burning despite the biting cold. Rhys could feel a flush creeping up his neck, a heat that had no business being there, not now, not with the threat of hypothermia looming.

“I know,” Julian said, his voice flat. He took another step, deliberately, testing the ice. Another faint, protesting groan came from beneath them, a deeper thrum this time. Rhys pressed his lips together, his jaw tight. This was insane. Julian was insane. This entire world was insane, a poorly plotted melodrama where the ‘villain’ had somehow become obsessed with the wrong side character.

“You’ll break it,” Rhys managed, his voice a little stronger, fueled by a surge of desperate anger. “We both will.”

Julian stopped, maybe five paces from Rhys, the unstable ice stretching between them like a thin, glittering membrane. The wind whipped Julian's dark hair across his forehead, but his eyes remained fixed, unwavering. They were the color of deep winter nights, sharp and knowing. Rhys felt a shudder run through him, a jolt that was less cold and more… electric. This was the 'Boys Love (BL) spark' the fan forums always raved about. The 'inevitable, consuming attraction.' Except Rhys wanted nothing to do with it. He just wanted to escape Lord Beaumont and this entire absurd plot.

“You would prefer to drown?” Julian’s question was devoid of judgment, a simple, cold statement of fact. But the implication hung heavy: *You chose this. You made me follow.*

“I’d prefer to… not marry a man who collects badger heads,” Rhys retorted, his voice cracking on the last word. He hated how defensive he sounded. He hated the way his heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape its cage. He hated the way his gaze kept getting drawn to Julian’s mouth, to the firm line of his jaw, to the way the snow settled on the dark strands of his hair like diamonds.

Julian’s eyes narrowed, a subtle shift that made Rhys’s stomach clench. “Your… suitor.” He said the word like a curse. “He will not touch you.”

Rhys blinked. “That’s… not really your concern, is it?” The novel, in its original, convoluted glory, had Julian pursuing the true protagonist, a perpetually innocent farm boy named… he couldn’t even recall the name now. A farm boy who was always getting into absurd scrapes that Julian would then dramatically rescue him from. Rhys was meant to be a minor obstacle, a pawn. Not the object of this intense, focused stare.

“It is now,” Julian said, his voice flat, absolute. He took another step, and the ice beneath Rhys’s feet let out a warning shriek. Rhys swayed, arms flailing for balance. His boot slipped, and for a terrifying second, he was airborne, the world tilting, the cold river water rushing up to meet him.

Before he could truly fall, a hand, strong and surprisingly warm, clamped around his arm. Julian. He had moved with a speed that defied the treacherous footing, closing the distance in a single, fluid motion. His grip was iron, pulling Rhys back, steadying him. The impact sent a jolt up Rhys’s arm, a raw, undeniable current that sparked through his entire body. It was too much, too sudden, too intimate.

Rhys gasped, his face inches from Julian’s shoulder. He could smell the crisp, clean scent of snow and something else, something subtly earthy and masculine that made his head spin. His breath hitched. He hated it. He hated how his body reacted, how his skin tingled where Julian’s fingers dug into his coat sleeve, how the heat radiating from Julian’s body was a sudden, overwhelming contrast to the icy air. He hated the way his knees felt weak, the ridiculous, involuntary flush that he knew was spreading across his cheeks.

“Careful,” Julian murmured, his voice a low rumble against the roaring wind, close enough that Rhys felt the vibration of it in his own chest. Their eyes met. Julian’s dark gaze, usually so unreadable, held a flash of something unmasked, something almost possessive. It made Rhys’s breath catch in his throat, a sharp, painful sensation.

“I… I’m fine,” Rhys lied, trying to pull away, but Julian’s grip remained firm. The ice creaked again, louder this time, a deeper, more profound complaint. A thin spiderweb of cracks began to spread from beneath Rhys’s feet.

“No, you’re not,” Julian countered, his gaze sweeping over the burgeoning cracks, then back to Rhys’s face, sharp and assessing. “You’re reckless. You always were.”

Rhys bristled. “I am not reckless! I’m… I’m trying to survive a completely ludicrous situation! And I actually had a plan, which you have now ruined by standing on the same sheet of collapsing ice as me!”

Julian’s expression didn't change, but his grip tightened. He didn’t argue. He simply shifted his weight, pulling Rhys gently but firmly closer, their bodies almost brushing. It was just to distribute their weight, Rhys knew, a logical, self-preservation move. But the proximity, the sudden press of Julian’s solid form against his, sent another jolt through him, a deep, unsettling warmth spreading through his core. This wasn’t just physical safety. This was… dangerous in a different way.

He could feel the subtle shift in Julian’s muscles beneath the heavy fabric of his coat. The faint, controlled thrum of his pulse. It was all too real, too immediate. Rhys hated it, hated the confusing mix of fear and something else, something undeniably magnetic, that pulled him in. This wasn’t just a character from a book. This was Julian, impossibly present, impossibly close.

“The ice won’t hold us both for long,” Julian stated, his eyes still scanning the cracks, but a subtle tension had entered his voice. He wasn’t looking at Rhys, but Rhys felt the weight of his attention, the way Julian was acutely aware of his every tremor, his every breath. It was unnerving, exhilarating. Rhys’s heart rate spiked again.

“Then… then what?” Rhys managed, his voice barely a whisper. The cold was seeping into his boots, dulling his toes. His fingers were stiff inside his thin gloves. He wanted to blame the cold for the shivers running down his spine, but he knew it was Julian, the silent, intense man who had inexplicably inserted himself into Rhys’s second, equally absurd life.

Julian’s gaze finally returned to Rhys’s face, holding it. The intensity was almost painful. “We move. Quickly. Together.” His fingers, still wrapped around Rhys’s arm, shifted, sliding down to his wrist, then to his hand. He didn’t just grasp it; he laced their fingers together, a firm, deliberate intertwining. It wasn't a casual touch. It was a tether.

Rhys stared at their joined hands, his mind blanking. The simple, undeniable contact. Julian’s skin was rough, calloused, but surprisingly warm against his own. The heat spread, from his hand, up his arm, settling deep in his chest. It felt… solid. Real. And terrifying. He wanted to pull away, to scream, to demand an explanation, but the words were caught in his throat, choked by the sheer, overwhelming presence of Julian, the cold, the cracking ice, and the ridiculous, impossible reality of his second life.

“Where?” Rhys finally asked, his voice hoarse, his gaze still fixed on their clasped hands. He couldn’t look at Julian’s face, couldn’t meet that unwavering intensity. He was too exposed, too vulnerable, every nerve ending screaming.

“East bank,” Julian responded, his voice losing its slight tension, becoming a low, steady command. “There’s a shallow point. But we need to keep moving. Don’t stop.”

Rhys nodded, mute. He swallowed, a dry, uncomfortable gulp. He didn’t trust this. He didn’t trust Julian. He certainly didn’t trust this ridiculous novel, which seemed intent on dragging him through one melodramatic, embarrassing ordeal after another. But Julian’s hand, so warm, so firm, was an anchor in the shifting, treacherous world of ice and snow. And for a moment, just a fleeting, terrifying moment, Rhys didn’t feel quite so alone.

He watched Julian’s back as they moved, Julian setting the pace, his strides long and measured, testing the ice with each step. Rhys followed, his gaze fixed on their clasped hands, the only solid thing in a world that felt like it was crumbling beneath him. The cold was a dull throb now, a background hum against the frantic beat of his heart. Every crunch of ice, every sigh of the wind, felt amplified, a soundtrack to his desperate, unwilling flight.

The satirical element of his transmigration, his understanding of the novel's tropes, felt entirely useless now. Julian wasn’t following the script. Not even remotely. He was rewriting it, not with grand gestures or dramatic pronouncements, but with a silent, unwavering presence, a hand holding his, guiding him across thin ice. It was more terrifying than any 'villainous' act from the original story. Because it felt… real. And Rhys, despite himself, found his focus narrowing, not on the collapsing ice, not on the threat of the river, but on the man pulling him forward, the warmth of his hand, the steady rhythm of his presence.

They reached the east bank, Julian pulling him up onto the snowy ground with surprising ease. Rhys stumbled, breathless, collapsing onto his knees in the deep snow, his lungs burning from the cold air. Julian didn’t release his hand, not immediately. He knelt, too, his gaze sweeping over Rhys’s face, searching for something Rhys couldn’t name. A silent question. A fierce, unspoken concern. The intensity of it made Rhys’s cheeks burn anew.

“Are you hurt?” Julian’s voice was softer now, devoid of its previous command, laced with a gruff tenderness that sent a strange warmth through Rhys’s chest. It was a foreign sensation, unsettling in its unexpectedness. Rhys shook his head, unable to speak, his breath still coming in ragged gasps. The snow felt frigid against his knees, but Julian’s hand was still warm, a stark contrast that anchored him.

Julian’s thumb brushed over the back of Rhys’s hand, a small, feather-light stroke that sent a shiver through him. Rhys flinched, pulling his hand away, the sudden loss of contact an unexpected ache. He immediately regretted it. Julian’s expression closed off, the brief vulnerability vanishing behind the usual mask of stoicism. Rhys felt a pang, a strange, complicated feeling that was part relief, part disappointment. This was better. This was safer. This was a character from a book. Not a real, terrifyingly intense man who could make his breath hitch with a single touch.

“No,” Rhys finally managed, pushing himself up, brushing snow from his trousers. His legs felt like jelly. “I’m… I’m fine. Just cold.” He wouldn’t look at Julian. He couldn’t. The river groaned behind them, a final, definitive crack tearing through the silence. They had crossed just in time. Or, rather, Julian had ensured they crossed just in time.

Julian stood, towering over him, his shadow long and dark on the pristine snow. He watched Rhys, his hands now clasped behind his back, a picture of contained power. The silence stretched between them, thick with unsaid things. Rhys could feel the weight of Julian’s gaze, even without meeting it. It was a suffocating pressure, yet also, inexplicably, a comfort.

He hugged his arms around himself, trying to stop the tremors that still ran through his body. “So… what now?” he asked, his voice small, addressing the snow at his feet. He knew what the novel said, what should happen. But Julian wasn’t following the script, and Rhys had no idea what to expect. He just knew he was no longer alone in this absurd, frozen world.

Julian’s answer was a single, precise word, spoken against the vast, cold backdrop of the winter wilderness. “Home.”

And in that word, so simple, so resolute, Rhys felt the ground shift beneath him again, not with the terror of cracking ice, but with the dizzying, bewildering force of a new, completely unanticipated gravity.