Usually he gave her presents - things he saw that she needed but would be embarrassed to accept unless he saved them for a birthday, for a holiday, or a celebration of their own creation.  A hat with an Arendelle crocus bloom adorning the brim when he saw her eyes linger on it in the shop window when she turned sixteen.  Some mittens when he noticed her hands were red as she rubbed them together before tucking them between the folds of her skirt on a brisk December walk, given to her after the ringing of the Yule Bell.  A book of fairy tales after she had sat, rapt, as he told her the story of a mermaid leaving her home in the sea which he gave her declaring it to be their tree’s birthday, and wouldn’t the tree want them to celebrate by reading under its branches all afternoon?

The sun was already setting and the lanterns hanging from the branches of the willow looked like they were hovering in the air.  As though it was magic keeping them afloat. The leaves scattered in the courtyard looked like a panel of stained glass in the chapel, the bright colors shining like the jewels on a crown. Falling leaves floating on gusts of air always reminded him of something that he could never quite call to mind.  Something about floating and flying with wind and laughter ringing in his ears.

“I have a present for you,” she said, and placed the package between them on the bench.  It was wrapped with blue paper and she had tied it with a ribbon. Her knee was touching his and though he wondered what was in the box, he was more eager to reach for her hand.

“For me? Why?” 

“Oh, I could make up some reason like you do, I suppose, but the only reason is that it’s finally finished. So I can give it to you now.” She pushed it closer to him and as she leaned in, he noticed the gentle curve of her neck, usually hidden underneath her long hair but today visible with her hair pulled back into a complicated braid.

He pulled at the ribbon and ran his fingers under the folds of the paper and then opened the box to find a leather-bound book. As he picked it up, he realized it was a journal - in her handwriting.

“What is this?” he asked, smiling and flipping through the pages.  There were illustrations of trolls and huldra and nattamara and some creatures he didn’t recognize. Her neat writing was under each drawing and there were pages and pages of text without any pictures at all.

“I know how you like fairy tales, so I gathered some from here.  From Arendelle.  So you don’t have to only read Danish and German ones.”

“You wrote me a book?” he asked, pleased. Iduna was in constant motion - climbing or sailing or walking and the idea that she had sat for hours, writing something just for him, made him feel like his heart was soaring out of his chest, joining their lanterns in their flight.

“I did.  And we can read it together, here at our tree.”

He reached for her hand and squeezed. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” she said and rested her head against his shoulder, her hand still in his as they watched the flutter of orange sugar maple and yellow birch leaves falling to the ground all around them.