TOA Secret Santa

With that, that brings a close to this year's Secret Santa event! Thank you to everyone who participated and checked in to look at all the gifts with us!

Azama and Mitama sharing a soft moment for Key!

Merry Christmas, Lailah! I bear gifts of Renais Family Time for you!

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Eirika had not anticipated that participating in reconstruction efforts in Grado would be quite so literal. She had envisioned her and Ephraim’s roles would focus more on things like economic and social change, not on aiding in repairing buildings. That may have been her fault for making such an assumption. She should have known Ephraim would be more inclined towards physical labor like this than something that required bureaucratic hassles like financial contributions. Ephraim would go mad if he stayed cooped up for too long working on paperwork or rallying the nobility to support his endeavors. If he could simply ask an aide for a policy to be enacted and be done with it then and there, then Ephraim would have taken care of it already.

Eirika paused her work, turning her gaze to her brother. Ephraim stood tall on the rooftop of the building they were working on repairing, helping lift materials onto it. He looked far more in his element here than he did back in the castle. She could not help but wonder how much of the work of ruling Renais would end up falling to her instead of to him, even though it was he who had been named king. Ephraim seemed almost incapable of sitting still long enough for Seth or any of Fado’s surviving aides to explain to him the intricacies of certain kingly duties. She did not blame him, of course; she understood precisely how boring he found it all, how his mind tended to wander from topics that failed to hold his interest. He would have no issue leading Renais’s armies in battle, should any arise again while they lived, but the day-to-day legislative tasks seemed more than likely to slip past unfinished if Eirika did not step in.

A small sigh escaped Eirika as she looked back to the patch she was creating. It was not taxing so much as it was tedious. She was grateful to the builders assisting them for the instruction they gave her, as she had previously been entirely unaware of just how people’s homes were constructed. She was more familiar with the castle and its stone walls, and though she knew on principle that the average citizen lived more modestly, the intricacies of matters like this had escaped her. Weaving thin wooden strips in between stakes into a lattice that could then support a sticky daub to cover it was yet another task she could see Ephraim having little patience for. It was precise work, time-consuming, but it was not a task that required her to be fully engaged at all times. She had the freedom to allow her mind to wander (so long as her work never became sloppy, at least) while she toiled away, something she knew would be Ephraim’s undoing if he attempted the same task.

Eirika frowned, glancing from her work to her brother and back again. Even if she thought this may ill suit him, she ought still to encourage Ephraim to attempt it. If he was to be king, she needed to do everything she could to support him, particularly in areas where she knew him to be deficient. If someone else pushed Ephraim in that manner, he would be far less likely to take their advice than if it came from Eirika. Looking after him, ensuring that he grew as well-rounded as possible, it was in service of Renais. She was doing it for more than Ephraim’s own sake.

Eirika called out to Ephraim, waving him over. It only took the prince a moment to clamber down from the rooftop, weaving his way through the other workers to reach his sister. His eyes met hers, only glancing at the patch she was creating for the damaged wall briefly before his attention returned to his sister.

“Come, sit with me,” Eirika urged Ephraim before he even had the chance to inquire what it was she wanted. “I want you to try your hand at this. I think you would benefit from understanding how it is done.”

“Really?” Ephraim responded, sincere confusion written upon his face; it may have been rude coming from another, but Eirika knew Ephraim did not consider that sort of element of his wording at all. “You seem to be doing a fine enough job. Should I not continue what I was doing? Not everyone here is as able-bodied as I am. I would think that I ought to apply my strength where it is needed instead of handling tasks that can be done by those without it.”

“Well, I’m handling this task. Do you mean to imply I’m not strong?” Eirika countered, her words coming out slightly more barbed than she had intended. Ephraim shrank backwards slightly as his mistake was made plain to him. Eirika turned her head away, choosing to keep her eyes on the wattle on which she worked rather than watch her brother struggle with his social ineptitude.

“Of course not!” Ephraim insisted, clearly trying to choose his words uncharacteristically carefully. “I simply mean that you and I bear no major injuries from battle. Some of these people have lost arms or legs, or they’ve suffered harm that prevents them from fully using them. Some of them are too young or old to be entrusted with labor too strenuous. I would not malign your work intentionally, Eirika. I just want to make sure I’m doing what is most helpful for me to do.”

“It’s all well and good that you care so much for the others here,” Eirika countered, “but I think this would be good for you to experience as well. You’ve nearly finished up on the roof. I’m sure the others can handle what’s left just fine. I want you to sit with me and work on the wall.”

Though his mouth opened to raise an objection, it closed again without any sound escaping it. Ephraim seated himself beside Eirika, eyeing the damaged wall carefully. His gaze moved from the patch Eirika was creating to the jars of wet plaster beside her, then to the stakes that had yet to have any wands woven between them. Eirika wondered if he would intuit exactly what needed to be done or if she ought to direct him herself, but Ephraim decided to put those questions to bed before she had a chance to raise them. She rather wished he had not.

“Why not just use stone?” Ephraim asked, frowning as he gestured towards the wattle. “This seems like a lot of work to make subpar materials viable. We don’t know if Grado might experience any further disasters in the future. Surely a sturdier building would be all the better, no?”

“That’s not the point, Ephraim!” Eirika objected, sighing in frustration. “Well, no, you’re partially correct. Making the weaker materials work as building materials— that part is the goal here. Still, you’re missing the bigger picture. Do you think they wouldn’t use stone if they had the chance?”

“I’m sure there’s reasons they aren’t using it,” Ephraim answered. Eirika wondered if he was missing the point on purpose. “Maybe it’s some tradition I don’t know about. Maybe they don’t know how to work with stone the way they did in Renais. Actually, no, it can’t be that, Grado has stone castles too. Then perhaps…”

“Perhaps they can’t afford it?” Eirika interjected, unwilling to endure further needless conjecture from her clueless brother. She could practically see the recognition dawn in his eyes, quickly followed by a marked discomfort as he glanced from her to the others clamoring around them. She could tell what he was thinking just from the way he looked at the other workers, from following his gaze to see it was pointed at their attire. He was just now realizing that they were poor, that these people were not afforded the same luxuries he was used to. It may have been an obvious aspect to Eirika, but Ephraim likely had neglected to consider such a thing at all.

Another sigh left the princess. She should not begrudge her brother for failing to recognize the economic aspect to the things going on here. Her mind was more focused on such topics than his, after all. He likely had not given even a moment’s consideration to things like cost, and so far, that had made him popular among the people they were assisting, but Eirika knew that she needed to reign him in before that attitude changed. He had pledged assistance from Renais without a moment’s consideration to how it would impact his own people, he had supplied materials directly from their own stockpiles, and the people of Grado had thus far been grateful for it. If any of them felt discomfort, if any of them recognized Ephraim’s blindness to issues of social stratification, they had hidden it well so far. Perhaps they simply feared offending him and causing him to rescind these gifts; Eirika knew Ephraim would do no such thing, but the average Gradoan citizen had no reason to believe that to be the case.

“I— I didn’t mean— you have to understand,” Ephraim fumbled with his words, searching desperately for an explanation that he could not give. “I did not intend any disrespect. I thought high-quality stone was more plentiful here than it is back home. I thought Lyon told us something to that effect once, did he not?”

“He did,” Eirika assured him, though the slight frown she wore remained fixed in place. “But that does not mean it’s available to the average person. Stone requires quite a lot of effort to quarry. For the amount of labor involved, you get more workable material from lumber. Look here, Ephraim. See how little wood is being used? They carve much of it into these thin strips and use thicker supports like those stakes rather sparsely. Even a single log’s worth of timber is stretched across far more of the building than you could with stone. I don’t expect you to know the price of wood compared to stone, brother, but surely you can tell how inexpensive this is by comparison, can’t you?”

“Of course I can,” Ephraim insisted, “at least now that you point it out. Would you have expected me to know before anyone told me? I hardly think it’s strange I would not have noticed without that. I’m no builder.”

“Nor am I,” Eirika sighed. Better that she explain such matters to him than any of the actual builders here. Eirika had to imagine they would be far less patient about it than she. It was not hard to envision such a discussion quickly growing into a shouting match as Ephraim’s bullheaded and blunt attitude caused him to offend people unintentionally. He had done his part protecting her during the war with Grado, and now it was her job to protect him from matters in which he had less experience.

“I don’t expect you to be anyone other than yourself,” Eirika continued, “and that includes not expecting you to intuit things that are unfamiliar to you. That’s why I called you over here to tell you of this. I’m not condemning your lack of knowledge. This isn’t an attack. You need not defend yourself to me. I simply wish to broaden your horizons. You would benefit from having a bit more perspective on the lives of average citizens, and I saw an opportunity to grant that to you.”

“I understand,” Ephraim conceded, recognizing, perhaps, that this was a battle he had little hope of winning. “You’re right as ever, sister.”

“Then work with me,” Eirika repeated her initial request, scooting aside to allow Ephraim space to join her. “You won’t learn as much from up on the roof.”

“Still, I understand now,” Ephraim said, still feebly attempting to contest Eirika despite what she had just assumed. “You’ve given me the perspective. Now that I have it, I should return to the others and contribute my strength where it’s—”

“Brother!” Eirika huffed, cutting Ephraim off before he could finish making the same argument again. “You will work with me until I see you’ve actually learned something from it! You have some small insight into this process, yes, but it’s nowhere near complete! You are going to have these topics come up again, you know! You’re king! You’ll be discussing things like damaged homes or constructing new villages at some point in the future. It will happen. Would it not be better that you fully understand what that process entails so that the decisions you make will be better informed? I would not have you skipping the opportunity for growth because you find the task less exciting.”

They both could be stubborn in their own ways, but Eirika wielded her stubbornness with more precision than Ephraim. She had found a gap in her brother’s armor, and she aimed to pierce it with a clean strike. He had his weakness, and it was that he cared deeply for her. That meant that she would have a far easier time convincing him of more or less anything compared to most other people. With how clear she had made her stance, Ephraim could do little to argue (at least not successfully). It took him a moment to grapple with the notion, but he eventually, albeit reluctantly, recognized that victory had eluded him. He plopped himself down next to Eirika, scooping out a handful of daub from one of the nearby jars and waiting for direction from his sister.

“Alright then, explain this to me,” Ephraim suggested, nodding in the direction of the sticky goo in his hand. “Where should I apply it?”

“No, we’re not there yet,” Eirika stated, shaking her head. Reigning in the obstinate prince was definitely not a task for anyone less patient than her. “Put it back— quickly now, before it dries onto your hands and you can’t move your fingers at all. We need to finish this side of the wall first before we apply the daub. You also don’t apply it with your hands, you know. You need some kind of tool to smooth it out. Otherwise it will end up uneven, and that will lead to structural deficiencies.”

“How do you know all of this?” Ephraim finally decided to ask. Eirika had a suspicion he had been pondering that question more or less the entire time they had been speaking. He turned to scrape his hands against the lid of the jar, depositing as much of the plaster back into the container as possible. It was not nearly enough, Eirika could see that. Though most of the substance returned from whence it came, some of it still clung to his fingers, and it would solidify before long. Ephraim was concerned more with wasting as little as possible, not with how it would impact his ability to manipulate fine objects, such as the thin strips with which they were working.

“Unlike you, I actually paid attention to our tutors,” Eirika scolded him, though her tone was more playful than it had been previously. “…Not that I learned it there. While we were traveling out here, one of the workers explained to me how they build all of this. You were busy seeing how many crates of material you could carry in each arm at the time.”

Once again, Ephraim winced, though he did not contest Eirika’s claim. He likely did not remember that a builder had tried to discuss their methods with them, but he certainly did recall his little lifting contest with some of the younger workers. He had not even won, either, and Eirika strongly suspected that the defeat had wounded his pride. There was one in particular, an absolute goliath of a teenage boy, who had been able to outshine Ephraim entirely when it came to strength. Eirika was just grateful Ephraim had managed to restrain himself from asking the man to spar afterwards.

“Go wash your hands off,” Eirika added, nodding in the direction of a table of supplies nearby. “There’s water in that jar over there. Hurry up, before the daub on your hands hardens. When you get back, I’ll explain how to weave these withies together.”

Mercifully, Ephraim decided not to argue with Eirika this time. Maybe he had worn himself out on that front already. Maybe he had just realized that Eirika would not hear any disagreement from him. Whatever the case, he wandered off to clean his hands as commanded, giving Eirika a moment of peace before it was time to begin the instruction in earnest. That huge boy he had been competing with before was over at the same table, and she could see him greet Ephraim excitedly. It brought a small smile to her face, though Ephraim’s expression did not match hers. He seemed entirely unaware of the bonds he had formed here. Even if his methods did not quite match hers, he still managed to inspire people around him in his own ways. That was good. It was part of the makings of a good king. Maybe if Ephraim recognized it, he might be able to better harness that ability of his… or it might change nothing. The fact that he was unaware of it was part of why he had succeeded in charming some of these people.

Before long, Ephraim had returned, now with his new friend in tow. Apparently, the boy was also interested in learning how this part of the construction process worked. Perhaps it was easier if she had two people to explain things to, Eirika thought to herself. After all, she could couch her explanations in some plausible deniability this way. Ephraim was less likely to feel spoken down to if she could pretend that she was saying it for the boy’s sake, and not Ephraim’s.

“Alright,” she began, her smile remaining firmly affixed as she gestured to the wall in front of her. “This part is called the wattle…”

wishing you a very merry christmas and happy holidays, wild! hope it’s a warm and toasty one!

Mauvier’s eyes crack open to the last dredges of the fire in the hearth. He sits up before really thinking about it, then swiftly makes his way to the log pile. 

  He’s well rested, he realizes, as he tosses a cleanly-split log on top. His body is unaccustomed to such a feeling. He watches as the fire finds its new fuel, slowly growing around it, consuming it. 

  Content, he turns to the little cot where Lady Veyle lay. She’s still deep in slumber; her hair and limbs are splayed every which way. Mauvier lights up to see her so at peace.

  Lastly, he glances out the window. The blizzard had raged last night, but the dawn sky is clear now. The resulting blanket of snow is nearly as high as the glass pane, and all Mauvier can see on the horizon is white, white, white.

  He’s grateful for this shelter, with its sturdy walls and ample food and wood. But how long will they be stuck here? Will Lady Veyle be angry with him for allowing her to be stranded like this? Perhaps he could wrap her in blankets and carry her, even if he has to trudge for miles in the waist-deep snow -

  “Mauvier?” A little hand tugs at his sleep shirt. “What’s the matter? You look upset.”

  Mauvier glances down at his little Lady as she rubs her sleepy eyes. Her long hair is tangled and messy, and she’s kicked off one fuzzy sock in her sleep. 

  “Good morning, Lady Veyle,” Mauvier greets, a warm smile spreading across his face. It stiffens as he looks outside again. “Ah, that storm was very bad. We may be stuck here for a day or two.”

  Lady Veyle blinks once, twice. “Really?”

  Mauvier searches her tone for malice, frustration. He is ready to bow in search of her forgiveness.

  Instead, Veyle spins around, grabbing her big fluffy coat from the back of a dining chair and throwing it on. She opens the door, heedless of the snow that threatens to pile inside. She plants herself in the snow, fanning her arms and giggling. “Yay, this is so fun! Mauvier, come try!”

  “My Lady,” Mauvier calls after her, panic seeping in around the edges. “Please, you must get properly dressed before you play in the snow. You could get sick.”

  He’s not actually sure if she would get sick, being a dragon and all. But if he took that chance, he’d be a poor excuse for a knight.

  ❆

  Together, Mauvier and Veyle carve a path from the doorway of the cabin, then create a little clearing that’s about as long as the cabin. Veyle crouches down and starts piling up snow with her woolen-mittened hands.

  “I’m making a snow dragon,” she explains, like it’s obvious.

  “I see,” Mauvier murmurs, suddenly out of his depth. “May I…be of assistance?”

  “Yes,” Veyle says confidently. She pulls extra snow from the tall piles at the edges of the clearing. “Can you please go back inside and find stuff to dress him up? He’ll need eyes and teeth. Maybe a scarf.”

  It sounds a bit ridiculous. Despite their rather elaborate accommodations, surely nothing there could serve as a dragon’s eyes or teeth. “I don’t believe I understand,” Mauvier answers, “but I will do my best, Lady Veyle.”

  She smiles at him, barely perceptible beneath the oversized scarf wrapped around her. Except Mauvier can always tell by the sparkle in her eyes. He always loves to put it there.

  “Just use your imagination,” she says, hard at work molding the dragon's…body, Mauvier supposes. “You can do it.”

❆

Something snaked in Mauvier’s chest, stepping foot in the seaside town in Elusia that the Hounds had once set to ruin. Thankfully, it was rebuilding quite nicely, and plenty of people were settling down and starting their lives over. Despite the air of optimism, though, there was still so much to be done. The Fell Princess and her knight brought in three horse-drawn carts full of food and blankets to hand out, and Mauvier busied himself with house repairs.

  Lady Veyle was certainly born for this kind of work. She loved nothing more than hearing people’s troubles, lifting their spirits any way she could. She promised peace, prosperity, hope. It seemed that people were willing to take it, too.

  But of course, not everyone could be persuaded by promises alone. Mauvier knew that all too well. As the sun began to set, the sky turned gray and cloudy. Mauvier was making his way back to his liege as the snow began to fall.

  “Hey, you!” cried a gruff voice from behind him, just as Veyle came into view. “Yeah, you, tin man! You’re with that Fell Dragon, right?”

  Mauvier turned, his wide shoulders stiffening. There was no honor in lying. “I am, sir.”

  The man addressing him had dirt on his face, under his fingernails. The skin under his eyes was thin and ashen. “Well, she’s full of shit! Ain’t she the reason this town went to hell in the first place? How are we supposed to believe she can just turn a new leaf and make everything right again?”

  Mauvier’s first instinct was to reach for the lance that he did not bring with him. On second thought, raising a weapon to this man would not set Lady Veyle at ease. He needed to solve this with words alone, somehow. 

  He breathed in, out. Softened his gaze. “We have both done unspeakable things, sir. And we both seek to atone for them. Your belief is all we can ask.”

  This only made the man’s rage simmer into something quiet and seething. “Your pretty words won’t fix anything,” he croaked, his breaths short and ragged. “They won’t bring my family back.”

  And for this, Mauvier had no retort. An apology stuck in his throat; sincere, but meaningless. His fingers were limp at his sides. No battlefield could have ever prepared him for this.

  But behind Mauvier, again, there were footsteps. Veyle was approaching with a folded blanket, a basket of bread and fruit and cheese. 

  “Don’t you come any closer!” the man warned, his voice breaking as it rose.

  Veyle was heedless of the threat as she stepped past Mauvier, silent and resolute. 

  “I will give the people more than my word,” she said softly, holding out her offering.

  The air was still tense for several moments; Mauvier was still poised to protect his charge if this man decided to attack her. But Veyle was wise beyond her waking years; she knew he would do her no harm.

  Something in the man’s face broke, like a wall coming down. He crumpled, taking Veyle’s provisions with shaking hands. He sobbed, wordless, cradling what seemed to be all he had left in the world.

  Veyle was still for long moments. Then she turned, looking Mauvier in the eye.

  “The townsfolk say the storm will be bad,” she said. “We still have some blankets and rations, so I’ll bring them to the hostel. Then we should get out of here, before the roads get too treacherous.”

  “Yes, my Lady,” Mauvier assented, feeling very much like a helpless coward in comparison to his little liege.

❆

Mauvier has been thinking of leaving.

  It’s been on his mind since the end of the war, when he noticed all of the friends Veyle had made. He noticed how much smaller his place was becoming in her life, not out of malice, but because his Lady has grown. She no longer needs, or seems to want, a staunch protector.

  What she needs is a friend, and Mauvier has not figured out how to be that.

  He scours the little kitchenette, the drawers of trinkets and bobbles. He may not be the most imaginative of Veyle’s confidants, but he remembers the sparse snowmen of his youth, the coals he used for their features. All he needs is something round.

  Mauvier decides to collect multiple potential pairs of “eyes”; big flat buttons, shiny green marbles, and some raisins from a jar on the counter. Teeth prove more difficult, but he’s struck by a flash of rare inspiration.

  When he crosses the threshold to the outside, the chilled air sending a shiver through him, he finds Veyle hard at work. She has rolled a ball for the head, stuck it on the oblong body, and is currently molding some pointed ears. Mauvier inspects the siding of the cabin and, as he’d hoped, finds some icicles dangling from the edge of the roof. He pulls a few down, and smirks with a secret pride. Perfect teeth.

  “What’d ya find?” calls Veyle, too focused to look up from her careful sculpting. 

  Mauvier’s heart is full. He was going to tell her when they made it back to Gradlon, when things settled down. Now, the thought feels as if he were to jab one of these icicles through his chest.

  He approaches Veyle and shows her his treasures. Veyle oohs and ahhs over them, eventually opting for the marbles. She’s especially pleased by the teeth, breaking the long icicles into smaller pieces and jamming them into the dragon’s wide-open maw. At first, this makes the jaw completely slough off, which only makes Veyle laugh.

  He would miss that sound.

❆

Veyle walked into the hostel ahead of Mauvier - toddled, he might say, with the stack of blankets she carried that towered over her head - so he could barely make out what must have been quite the perplexed look on the innkeeper’s face.

  “Good evening, sir,” said Veyle, taking rushed little steps to the counter to set her armload down. She looked the kindly old man in the eye, then bowed low. “These are a donation on behalf of the nation of Gradlon, for whoever in town might need them.”

  At last, Mauvier could see the owner’s face, softening from confusion into delight. “Oh, little miss, I’ve heard folks singing your praises all day! I’ve never seen the town in such high spirits all at once before.”

  Veyle beamed to hear that. “I think they’ve taught me that today,” she tells him. “That when people receive kindness, they reflect it back to others.”

  The owner nodded, and seeming to prove Veyle’s point, his smile was a mirror of her own. He looked up at Mauvier, standing just outside of the sunny spot they’d created. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you her chaperone?”

  “I am her knight, sir,” Mauvier answered, a quick reflex.

  “I see. It’s good that this lady’s got someone capable looking after her.” He flipped through a ledger on the counter, frowning. “To that end, it’s no secret that there’ll be heavy snowfall all night. I’d offer you a room here, but they’re all full at the moment, given the state of things.”

  Mauvier and Veyle were both quiet, unsure.

  “Thankfully, my cabin’s storm-ready. Just cut a half-cord of wood the other night. I was thinking of retiring to it myself, but you two look like you need it more.”

  Veyle blinked, gawked. “We couldn’t possibly ask - ”

  Mauvier dared not contribute his own thoughts: how can we trust you?

  “Good thing you’re not asking,” the innkeeper answered, adjusting his spectacles. “Just reflecting the kindness you showed us, as you would say. It’s just outside of town, little log-sided thing. You can’t miss it.”

❆

“It looks wonderful,” says Mauvier, of Veyle’s freshly-constructed snow dragon. She’s broken off more icicles for the spines along its back, stretching along its lengthy tail. Her only regret, she tells Mauvier, is failing to make stable wings.

  Veyle cheers and pumps her fists triumphantly, then glances up. “It’s snowing again.”

  Mauvier observes the grey clouds that have rolled in again. “It is. We should go back inside, Lady Veyle.”

  “Oh, I was having so much fun,” she groans. “But you’re right. We can keep playing later.” This gives Mauvier pause. He hadn’t thought of any of this as playing. Furthermore, it’s not like this is the first time Veyle has seen snow. But is this, perhaps, the first time she has been able to frolic in it, instead of marching toward war?

  “I’ll make us a stew,” Mauvier says as he shuts the door behind him. He sheds his wet outer layers and replaces them with warm, dry ones. 

  “You’re more tense than usual,” Veyle notes, kicking snow off her boots. “Is something bothering you, Mauvier?”

  He forgot to school his expression into relaxed neutrality. And to move his shoulders. In any case, he cannot lie at the best of times. Especially not when Veyle bats her lashes like this.

  He sighs, slumping a bit in the doorway. “Lady Veyle,” he begins, already deflated, “if you were alone, and encountered someone who wished to seek revenge on you, or the Hounds, what would you do?”

  Veyle’s movements slow and stall, like the flow of time has been altered. She pulls out a dining chair and turns it around before sitting in it. She still wears her coat.

  “I’d listen to them,” she answers. “Their grief. Their rage. They have a right to their feelings and their words. I am not owed their forgiveness.”

  It’s a diplomatic, if naïve, answer. It seems Mauvier must be more forward. “And if they sought to harm you?”

  Veyle stares at the floor. “What is this about? Why are you saying weird things? Is this about that guy from yesterday?”

  It is, and it isn’t. Mauvier is not sure which is the truth.

  “Do you not trust me?” Veyle continues, voice growing reedy, as if she’s on the verge of crying. “Do you still think I’m just a kid? That you need to fight all my battles for me?”

  The storm outside has grown more ferocious. Mauvier fears the snow dragon may be buried by the next morning. 

  “No, my Lady,” Mauvier says softly. “In fact, I…think you may have outgrown the need for me.”

  At that, Veyle’s face fully crumples, and her lashes grow wet. She tackles him, clings to his old Firenese sweater, and sobs.

  “If being stronger,” she weeps, “means you won’t be around anymore…I don’t know if I can do it.”

  Mauvier’s hands hover over her, unsure. “Lady Veyle?”

  “I’d miss you.” She buries her face in his torso, hands balling into fists.

  “I…” Regret suffuses Mauvier’s blood like ice. “I would miss you too.”

  Her little arms wrap around his waist; she grips him like he might turn to dust otherwise. “Then why? Why would you talk about leaving? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, no,” Mauvier soothes her. But he struggles to assuage her fears. She’s never been the thing Mauvier wants to leave. It’s everything else about himself he hopes to leave behind.

  But Veyle likes those things he longs to discard. 

  “You’re very strong,” he ventures. “Stronger than even I have seen. More than capable of protecting yourself. You have so many allies now, who can teach you things and give you experiences I could never come close to. If you…truly wish to keep me at your side, I will not stray.”

  Veyle sits with this for long minutes, her tears staining the wool of Mauvier’s sweater. Mauvier ventures to stroke gingerly at her hair, over her upper back.

  “You’re my friend,” she finally says, her voice more even-keeled. “That won’t change, even if you stop being my knight.”

  She’s said this to him once, though he’d struggled to believe it. “That is true.”

  “I don’t want to hold you back, if there are other things you want to do. And I won’t be mad.” She pauses, pulling back to give him a stern look. “Unless you don’t visit! Then I’ll be really mad. I’ll send people after you.”

  “Is that so, my Lady?” Mauvier’s worried face breaks into something playful. 

  “Yeah,” Veyle affirms, “and they’ll be even bigger and stronger than you, and they’ll haul you all the way back to Gradlon, so that we can have tea together.”

  “I thought you weren’t particularly fond of tea,” Mauvier interjects.

  “But tea parties are fun.” There are still tracks of Veyle’s tears on her face, but she’s smiling again, bright-eyed. 

  Mauvier nods like a solemn vow. “I would write to you, at the very least. I would visit as often as I could. I’d expect you to write to me, too. I’d think you were up to some trouble if you got too quiet.”

  That gets her to laugh, so he’s succeeded.

  “I don’t know for sure what I will do,” says Mauvier, “but I’m glad to have had this talk with you. My burdens are lifted.”

  Veyle does a pretend-curtsy. “I’m told I’m good at that.”

  “Though it appears we’ll be stuck in this region for at least a few more days,” Mauvier continues, frowning at the snowfall. “What should we do?”

  “When the snow stops, I wanna pop back into town,” Veyle tells him. “They’re still in dire straits. We should make sure they’re warm, and nothing’s caved in.”

  Mauvier’s smile is proud. That is his Lady, always thinking of others.

message: Happy Secret Santa and happy holidays, my friend! 

          With the school day not even halfway over the lecture hall isn't as lively as it would have been had it happened after lunch or even further into the day. As they filled in the stained glass window would have been as beautiful as gemstones and washed the eyes with their brazen, kaleidoscope luster had the heavy clouds not taken the light of the sun far too soon. The days were getting shorter as the turn of the season became colder, frost nipping and chasing their fleeting warmth like a hungry dog. Not quite as persistent as a wolf ready to ambush and playful enough to be considered only a passing nuisance—especially as sickness and crops begin to turn. 

While musings begin to wander to the simple, the adorable, he finds that the sun can peek out of the clouds for just a moment. A moment of clarity, shining through the red glass that crested the helm of an important figure or another, leads to not in the end. Not warmth. Not a brilliant show. Simply, it is not. 

While he is supposed to be one to read the crowd and air of a room quite well, it was about as tame as the morning could be with the holidays around the corner. Students and staff alike were filing in till the final moments before the full cresting of the sun—the time announced early this morning over the winding morning crowds about this so-called special event, called out as they were. 

While the supposed seating had been preached to be class-based rather than seating via cliques or class, it was rather hard to enforce when half the student body were standing and walking about. So the teachers seemingly gave up, especially as no fights arise while groups harmonize via biases right before their very eyes. 

     He could make out something in the crowd, faintly. “I swear, I have… work before the holidays…” Spoke a familiar student with a tasteful voice, a nasty something to her underlying tone said to a boy who barely crowns her shoulder in height.

     Her friend wasn't any louder. “Don't start… Anything close to the holidays would be… anyways.” The boy says as he pushes his glasses up closer to his eyes, staring daggers at something or someone he couldn't make out at this distance. 

Especially not as a rather large student crossed his vision and tactfully turned himself to push through a small burst of worming students who didn't move much. The large gentleman did give his apologies, terse and cold as his eyes suggest but given respect none short of royal prestige should be given, but the giant was where he needed to be before too long and he didn't want to grace the air with sully. He watches the student step beside another, a young man with golden hair and draped in blue outside of his school uniform gave his identity away pretty easily for anyone without their head in the dirt. 

     “Ah, Dedue” Came a rather languid tone from the uptight heir. “I was sure you'd be too busy to join us.”

Almost like the ocean of students before him were dismissed, leaving on a whim or just luck, it was then he saw that Dimitri was almost shoulder-to-shoulder with a familiar woman in red. Silver hair falls in a waterfall of murky grey under the muggy sky, instead of the aurora sheen under brighter weather she is as rigid as ever. To her other side was her shadow, a man whose back was turned to him and no doubt unwilling to side eye anyone besides Edelgard unless a slight was afoot.

     "Dimitri, without Dedue? You’d…” Edelgard would have continued her side response had she not been silenced by an amplified voice taking the attention of all. 

Before anything could come of it though, the faculty converged towards the front of the room were knights and important figures within the church—from suit to armor alike. To their front most position, was Seteth. 

     “Good day to all students of The Officers Academy. I have called you all here today for an important announcement regarding the coming season and a warning to—” Seteth's voice carries over the crowd like it was amplified just for the stranglers in the back, the hollowness of the hall an amplifier to his voice. 

To his right, a few students mimic and laugh amongst themselves. A hushed circle of three that would have gotten in trouble had the one bursting with flowers and a puffer chest wasn't truly a master at hushing their friends. He turned his attention back to the important information surely at hand, and it was the same as last year, no doubt about it. The seasons were getting treacherous with winter creeping in, bandits galore, and surely an even worsening condition on multiple political fronts. That last part was mostly hush-hush in all but exact wording, but whose keeping track? His grin would burst off his face if he wasn't listening quite intently. 

Well, as good as he can listen with audible sounds of discontent at the little group of friends as a nosy student hushed them, drawing an uppity professor's ire. 

Quite intently he did listen as Seteth’s place is taken by someone else, a temporary staff member if he remembers right—and it was Dimitri and Edelgard turning towards each other with a gentle incline of their faces, hair cascading their profile just enough he could see they were discussing something. 

Without me? Sang in his head—a mix of something more playful, a mix of something not so saccharine as he gets the implication. None of them are at ease by the tactful speech, neither are they so hopeful. 

And a noticeable sum also clued in. He'd be disappointed if they didn't. 

     “Don’t be like that, students, many of you have had this as a carryover tradition from last year and with it's,” it only had the barest of pauses for them between his declaration, “success from last year! Now, don't start mumbling all of you..." 

That didn't soothe anyone in the crowd who already had low enough thoughts on the meeting as a whole, and Claude felt a hushed chortle leave his lips at an assumption of the crowd. They didn't seem to hold much care for anything extracurricular on their faces. The behavior didn't skew towards the fresh meat side, as a few notable students he could see actually looked confused to maybe a bit hopeful. The disheartened chatter leaned towards the senior most students actually, the main culprits you'd expect to understand the implication, and some familiar floaters towards the center of their tenure who had to deal with that growing skepticism. Oh, what a noticeably divided group. 

A peak of sun comes through red and blue stain glass that flashes his eyes, before it's gone again as he notices most of the room bathed in yellow and silver light from the body of the art. 

Divided, huh? 

He walks forward and claps his hands on their shoulders, the two standing before him are almost the wiser as he clutches their shoulders like old pals would. He doesn't linger for long but the intention was there, especially as they both turn on him in their own ways. Edelgard seemed none too pleased and Dimitri turned with a slightly ominous face, teetering between warning and perplexity. While Claude was at their backs—anyone really, in their positions—they were bound to be upset at a jostling shake. 

He can feel his grin grow as they both pull their expressions back, likely realizing either complaining or pushing him would lead to something too exhausting. Especially as Claude looked between them expectantly. 

     “You are…” Edelgard starts in on him, but loses the inward battle like he surmised before. 

     “Encourageable. Claude, you seem in such high spirits.” Dimitri tries to finish her statement with some decorum left to spar, moving them along

     “Great! But enough about me. So, my fellow classmates, how is the weather holding you both over?" Claude masked at first, before continuing with a skillful amount of glee, “Not feeling particularly down after a little speech are you?" 

It was mid-day, of another day, he found them amongst the dying hedges, his boots kicking foliage long dead out of his way. No way they didn't hear him coming, and yet he still got such sour faces. 

     “I cannot say I am.” Edelgard keeps her answer true and simple. 

     “Of course not, but alas it isn't something to be proud of either.” Dimitri's forlorn expression, while hidden vocally, showed in his eyes just enough to be caught. 

Ah, disagreements between the countrymen at their sides aside, it was going to be high in political tension for a while, even over the waning seasons. But without much consideration for the people, seasons can mean nothing in the eyes of their Lords and Ladies except their own communities' needs. Especially in the looming threat of hoarfrost for some and political change for others. 

     “To not be worried about what the future has to come for those after us, or even what is happening now,” Dimitri continues, "I can't say I'm not worried." 

Claude would have qualified that as feeling ‘down’ but who was he to poke at the Prince. Edelgard also did not give a comment either and seemed to move on. Way on further into another topic. 

     “I trust you'll not let the current tide persuade you that you'll do any better during exams. After all, it's not like the sharpest eyes or the sharpest senses can beat the Black Eagle class.” Her haughtiness is disguised by her icy tone. 

     Dimitri found something deeper in her meaning than Claude could, and his lips broke into a smile. Tight, but here. “Now: have trust we'll be having our fair show of strength. Our professor taught us well.”

A sharpened set of senses? Trust…

     “So has ours." Edelgard would have flipped her hair had the wind not cascaded it for her, and it was a moment longer before she continued, "Claude. You haven't said anything. Thinking of a scheme like before?”

     "At the Battle of The Eagles and Lions?” Dimitri recounts. "Or…”

     When they got Shez. 

The thought of Shez was almost a crushing weight on his mind. A reminder that he should be getting back, that he should be somewhere else. The bushes are no longer golden or decaying with crisp autumn rot and are instead as bare as their misleading barbs could be. The thistles and branches are awaiting the coming of the tranquility of an ever changing season, always on time and always inevitable.

Inevitable, like being forced to leave the Officers Academy under Rhea’s orders. Inevitable like the war with the Church, and many of its constituents. The inevitable length of time where he had to claw his ways upwards towards becoming the first King of… Leicester. Leicester. 

He becomes heavy and he becomes groggy like no time before—beyond an emotional exhaustion or any false smile that can mask his settling discomfort. If, for a second, he can remember the Teach without being sidelined with the conflicting emotions of trust and weariness. Maybe it was the green hair doing him in, but his mind wanders back to those school days long past and… maybe that Immaculate dragon that was Rhea wasn't the most difficult thing he had to deal with, in hindsight. With men aplenty at his side he can but remember the familiar voices passing through his mind, ones of classmates shy or bold and conflicting in nothing short of bravery. 

Bravery, to see a new tomorrow, a path that he had to help reconstruct with. He can't run from this. 

Claude opens his eyes. Waking from a dream he hadn't the faintest idea how it came to be short of pushing it back further, but he couldn't exactly complain as even with the hounding memories, Claude awakens with a stretch. A few pops here and there riddle his back, but he could say he saw much clearer now. 

After he rubbed his stinging eyes, that is.

Sometime in the afternoon hours, Claude finds himself besides the band he could spy were not so merry as he. Ignatz and Lorenz bite their remarks back to any who approached topics they must've found something distasteful while chewing, one prone to running off with the topic a tad more than the other, but nonetheless. Marianne became a tad more skittish then before he had left their ever loyal presence at his side, but she kept strong even while silently noting things with her eyes. Hilda and Raphael, well, seemed to be slightly at peace with the decision but not without a good amount of hand worrying and chuffing. Many more signs you cannot ignore spread even further than that, beyond the faces he can directly count, but so was war and impending marching back towards Faerghus. 

From silver hair a decree and from golden hair came a courtly permission, and he came to scrutinize the purple eyes locked to his own. Looking, accessing. A shrug he simply gives Shez in return has them deflating. Marching the Federation between Empire and Kingdom to finish off the remaining Central Churches does not incentivize peace and treaty between the long, undisputed history, but they can only try while helping between the two. 

In the days of the Sea Moon there were very little tells of encroaching decay in the world like that of those before even the Pegasus Moon. A cold moon for an even colder time, especially those under the walls of the Academy. He couldn't complain but neither could he warm like the many moons after it—taking the peace of the world with it. 

     “What do you expect them to do from here?" If it had been any other time in his life, he'd have taken Shez’s lukewarm questioning as an accusation or probe. 

     Today, he can only scratch at his neck in reply. "Nothing so quickly, but at least a proper hello would be nice.” He heel-turns his lighter statement out of habit. "Did they say where this latest resistance from the Church was, it was within Kingdom territory, correct? That's why the King had given us permission." 

     Shez nods. “Indeed, somewhere around the south-southeast area of Faerghus, bordering where the Academy once stood. They're…”

Not subtle? Not exactly hiding, or scavenging? Claude can agree, even with the futility of it all. Hm. Perhaps not futility but hope for them. Hope that was misplaced with their martial prowess cut as it were, but stranger turns had happened in such shorter times than a monthly expedition can take. 

He was conversing with such an oddity, wasn't he? And from how they treat him, perhaps the sentiment is returned in kind. 

     "Are they all in favor of moving out through the nearest pass?” Claude asks. "Or should I head out first to get a consensus?"

a shot at some historical 80’s ‘fits for miss rosie~

Merry Yurimas- I mean happy holidays Cecil!! The way you described Niamh and Poe’s relationship made me think of how magnets simultaneously repel and attract each other so. I hope you enjoy this piece of your cipher girls inspired by the Yuri anthem Magnet!!

His first horse was a gift, a handsome gelding with a sleek coat that shone gold with the sun, and silver under moonlight. Not that he was supposed to take him out at night, or out on his own, or out much at all – at least for a while. Dimitri had been so proud that he had been allowed to mount a real horse, outside of the great circular paddock, that he scarcely complained about being able to ride him, and took the duties as his owner very seriously, brushing and feeding him carefully and with a loving hand, and cleaning out his stable even as the household staff stood off to the side, ready to step in should the young prince decide that this kind of labor was not for him. 

He never did. 

He named the horse Dazbog, for the sun, for the harvest. A fecund name, a lucky one, to match his own. 

“Mitya, are you ready? I don’t know how much longer I’m willing to wait for you.” It was a tease, his father’s posture loose and relaxed and the corners of his eyes creased into a warm smile as he watched his son lift the heavy saddle over his head to tack. 

“Don’t leave without me!” Dimitri called over his shoulder, hands hurrying to finish preparing Dazbog for their ride out into the surrounding mountain trails. “You promised you wouldn’t!" 

"I did,” Lambert agreed, tugging the rein in such a way that his own horse tossed her head and snorted. “Ah, but see, even Fionna is tired of waiting for you – can’t you pick up the pace?" 

Dimitri tugged himself up into the saddle, reaching for bridle and reins and shooting his father a glare, causing the King of Faerghus to toss his head back and bark a laugh into the chilly winter air. 

"There he is, doesn’t my young prince look handsome astride his prized steed. Shall we go?" 

It was not his birthday, not yet, but there was meant to be an aurora, visible across the greater span of Blaiddyd territory but in no greater intensity than in the deep north along the coast, reflected down from the inky black sky into the great black void of the sea. The ride was supposed to take a day or more, his first of such a length, and without the usual carriage or escort. 

(Well, the kingsguard would take them as far as the treeline, but it was nearly as good as going the whole length on his own.) 

Dazbog and Fionna took the fore, outstriding the others easily even at the low canter along the road – they were strong beasts, and rode as though they were meant to be seen at the beginning of a procession, proud and well-mannered. 

Dimitri’s heart hammered in his chest, excitement mounting the farther they got from the palace and out into the wilderness proper, such that he almost did not hear his father initially when Lambert leaned down and murmured, "You know, we could lose ‘em. We could just take off and leave 'em in the dust." 

It was all the warning that he received before, indeed, his father took off, a whoop leaving his throat at the thunder of hoofbeats against the hard dirt of the road. Dimitri regained his senses quickly, more quickly than their guard by a few seconds, eager not to be left behind, and it was all that was needed to drive forward and to feel the cold of the winter wind whip against his hair as he followed the broad back and fluttering blue cape, hearing the clamor of armor and shouts behind him as their guard attempted to catch up. 

It was different than any of his other riding lessons by leagues, hammering forward at a gallop along the road that started out as densely forested, a true demonstration of trust in himself, in his steed to follow where it needed to go, and in his father. 

His father who, as the trees began to grow sparser and the area more hilly, awaited at the top of a knoll, grinning ear to ear as all who had followed slowly caught up, one by one. Fionna’s tail flicked as though she were in on the joke, and part of him suspected that she was, that this manner of prank had been played not for the first time. 

"There you are!” his father called as the captain of their guard pulled up alongside him, turning Fionna back to a regular canter with a smooth motion. “I was beginning to think you had turned around and gone home." 

"Not this time, sire." 

A bright laugh, which told Dimitri that this was a frequent joke, one that he wanted to join in on but couldn’t find the space for himself, and so he simply followed along silently until they reached the winding fork at the base of the mountain, where indeed they would be leaving the guard behind. 

The real climb began then, into an area wilder than Dimitri had ever seen in the stern grey roads around Fhirdiad, overgrown with dark green needles, the sap so thick and strong it cut through the cold in the air with every breath and wrapped around his lungs. They would follow the path upward, he knew, until the path ceased and then they would keep going, dismounting when the terrain grew too rocky for their horses to bear without guidance and picking their way carefully to the crest where it almost felt as though he could touch the sky if he just reached up. 

The stars blinked at him as he blinked back, watching the sky change from an inky black the depths to which he could never fathom, to the flicker of color, soft at first, like the crest of a sunrise, and when Dimitri whirled back to see if his father had seen it Lambert was watching him, instead, and gestured with a hand for him to, "Look up, pay attention – you won’t want to miss the next part." 

And then the sky was aflame, magentas and greens, a swirling inferno that took the breath from his lungs if he craned his head back too far too see it all at once, and he found himself spinning in place, dizzy from the lack of air, from the lack of air, from the lack of air -  

From the smoke. The seeping, crawling smoke that dug its claws into his lungs. He could not see his horse long separated from the group, could not see the carriage, could not see his father – where was his father? Dimitri could hear him, over the shouting, over the screams that threatened to sweep him out to sea and drown him under the furious hands that had groped for him. 

He stumbled, followed the path at a run, followed the sound of his father’s voice, the roar of a true Blaiddyd lion, but stuck, stricken down and howling the sorrow, the rage -  

The flames turned vibrant green, dark red, throbbing in time with the wretched beat of his heart and brushing flagrantly against the cold of Fhirdiad’s twilight. He had hit the ground on his side with a terrible thump, felt the cage of his ribs crack under the pressure of simply trying to stand, of trying to mount the nearest horse and make flight from the city he called his home. 

He could not see, not well, but he could feel, every inch of him aflame with rage and pain and the onset of infection, the seep of blood slick in his hair and the whisper of every ghost he had every known urging him onward, urging him to stay and fight, urging him to kill and to die and to burn -  

The steps of his horse were certain as they picked up the mountain path, and although it had been a decade or more since he had come this way, Dimitri knew the way. Somehow, he still knew the way, well enough to guide the skittish old mare through the dense dark firs, well enough that even one-eyed he could still count the steps - longer now, greater now - up the rocky mountainside. 

He tired differently now, he found, as he made himself perch along the edge of a rocky outcropping, nudging the edge of Areadbhar out of the way while he caught his breath. When he had been younger, had been more eager, his body had not been so strong, although he had done everything he could to match the stride of his father, of every member of their guard. 

Now, though… 

Dimitri pressed gentle fingers, trembling gently, to the patch over his eye, took a breath as he forced himself to stillness, in, out, and allowed the tender voices drape over him, listened to them in chorus. 

It was harder, to pick them out individually, when he was so tired like this. 

A sigh, a gentle curl of steamed breath outward, and the King of Faerghus forced himself up from his seat, gently murmuring, "Yes, I’m coming. I’m on my way." 

Dark had settled over the mountains long before the time he emerged at summit, and when he tipped his head back the stars blinked back at him, as he sought out the edges of that pale green flame. 

Gift for Sepfish !

To: Reddo, happy holidays! From: Kanoesa

Merry Christmas Cru! I know you said you enjoy the exploration of grief, including Lon'qu’s past with Ke'ri, so I hope you enjoy this.

happy holidays, kiki!