Christmas Special — All ROs

You feel like you're beneath an avalanche, but it is one of warmth.

A big, heavy quilt topped with a heavier blanket crushes your chest and envelops your limbs in a dream-like warmness that reminds you of childhood days. Your eyes are half-lidded, drunk with sleep, and when you stretch your legs to feel the pleasant ache in your muscles, your toes slip out of the quill.

Cold bites at them.

You shiver.

The mountain beneath you moves. “Hmm?” Hadrian's rumbled voice tickles your ears. “What's wrong?” he drawls, the words so slurred you almost can't understand him.

His stubble tickles the side of your neck. You instinctually wiggle away, but Hadrian pulls you back in. “Nothing,” you say, and smile when one green eye peeks from underneath heavy eyelids. You lean in and kiss his cheek. “Go to sleep, Hadrian.”

He flexes his arms, crushing you to his chest. “Where were you going?” Hadrian asks. His big hands sprawl on your waist, slowly drawing circles over your stomach. He drags his palms upwards, brushing the bottom of your ribcage, then goes back down, feeling along the ridges of your hips. Hadrian repeats this over and over, lulling you back to a peaceful sleep.

Trying to trap you to this bed, you realize.

His hands move to your sides, and now, he’s softly caressing the outside of your thighs.

You love how comfortable he is with you. It took a while for him to accept that you don't mind him touching you, that you want him touching you however he wants, but Hadrian finally got the message. The problem is, now, he doesn't seem to be able to stop.

Hadrian calls your name, kissing your shoulder. His naked legs prickle the skin on yours, but surprisingly, it's not unpleasant. “Fell asleep?”

 “I was just thinking about us,” you say, a smile coming unbidden to your lips.

That wakes him. Hadrian rubs away the sleep in his eyes. “You, uh, were?” he says, and you can tell he's nervous.

Your smile widens. "I was," you confirm. “It seems like longer, doesn't it? It feels like it's been longer than a year since we had our first kiss.”

Hadrian visibly relaxes. His eyes crinkle at the corners, kind, and adoring, and he can't resist your lips. He leans in for a quick, tender kiss before whispering in your mouth. “Has it been a year?”

You nod, nose bumping with his. “Almost. We're nearing the year's end, and we kissed...” You think. “Was it a bit before the winter solstice?”

“Lord.”

“I know.” You grab his hand and put your palm against his. Hadrian immediately closes his fingers over yours, squeezing gently. “Look how far we've come,” you say, naked body next to his, his heart beating against your spine, and the taste of his kiss on the tip of your tongue.

“Look at us,” Hadrian murmurs and kisses you again. He lingers there, lips softly rolling over yours, then breaks away, smiles, and kisses you one last time.

You fall against his chest, sighing contentedly, while Hadrian's arms lock around you once more.

Silence reigns for a while. Outside, snow drifts from the sky, illuminated by a great yellow moon. It’s beautiful, but nothing in the world would make you get up from this bed.

The year rounds to an end, and, for the first time since you've abandoned your mother in that barn, you feel like you're where you're meant to be. You're home.

“I would do it all over again.” Hadrian suddenly breaks the silence. You tear your eyes from the window and are met with his deep green eyes. "Everything. As many times as God deemed it.”

His tone is low, but Hadrian speaks with an intensity that makes you incapable of looking away. “So would I,” you tell him.

Hadrian shakes his head. “You wouldn't need to.”

"What does that mean?"

He simply smiles and kisses your forehead. But you know what he meant. You've heard him, once, quietly praying in an empty room. He was thanking God for you.

As if he isn't a gift himself. “Listen to me," you say, turning in his arms. You loop your hands around his neck and push yourself until you're face-to-face with him. "I know I don't say this enough, but..."

Hadrian looks wide-eyed at you, and you struggle to maintain eye contact. The words are stuck on your tongue, so simple, but the hardest of them all.

“I love you. I wouldn't be here without you. I don't believe in your God, Hadrian, but if I did, I'd thank Him for you too.”

Hadrian stares quietly for a moment. You lick your lips, feeling your cheeks heat, but before you can say something to break the tension, Hadrian gently grabs your chin. “Angel,” he mutters, the voice so low that it reverberates through your chest and buries into your heart. Slowly, looking at you reverently, Hadrian closes the distance.

The kiss shows all the depths of his emotion. You melt on top of Hadrian, your bodies intertwining until you're unsure where you end, and he begins.

Snow continuously falls, freezing the glass, but inside, the cold can't find any foothold because two souls merge as one.

- - -

Alessa looks at the distant mountains, her eyes the same color of the world. Wind batters her face, freezing, but she barely feels it any longer.

She knows not how long she has been here, standing still. She tells herself she does not wait, but the lie is becoming harder and harder to believe. She waits for you, and Alessa detests the pang in her heart when, with each passing moment, it appears you will not come after all.

Her lips tighten, but Alessa remains in the same place, out on the balcony, staring past the lights and sounds of the winter market to the lonely, dark mountains on the horizon.

Thud.

Her eyes shift to the side.

The door lock rattles, then gives way, and the door opens.

You come walking in, stumping your feet to regain feeling. “Bloody freezing,” you grunt, your voice muffled behind the cloak around your face.

You close the door… and stop. “Alessa?”

She takes in a steadying breath behind the curtain. ‘Twould not do to come out running into your arms like a foolish girl. She wants to, embarrassingly so. Alessa could leap, such is the relief in her chest, but she will not.

Instead, she lifts her chin and steps through the open window, cold eyes assessing you from head to toe. You carry a bag, and snow clings to your boots. She does not see wounds or tossed clothes; while that appeases her, it eliminates any excuse you might have.

“You are late.”

You pull the cloth off your mouth, and she can see your darling face. It is reddish from the cold, and your lips are chapped, no doubt from the biting wind. Alessa would like to kiss them. "I know," you say. “The market was packet.”

“One would think I deserve an apology.”

You stare at her for a moment. Alessa keeps her features as impassive as possible, but she should have known. Of everyone in this cold world, you can read her the best. Perhaps because you mask your emotions as well as she does, but the more time you spend together, the less she can fool you.

Alessa knows she should feel more annoyed with it, but she cannot find it in herself to be.

“Is that what you want?” you ask, your voice just as impassive. You close the distance and lower your head to peek into her eyes. “Would you like me to apologize, Alessa?”

The way you say her name makes her shiver. “I was waiting for you,” she says.

“I know.” You look her over. “Why else would I hurry?”

Alessa breaks. “Come here, you fool,” she says and cups your jaw, rising on her tiptoes to—

You snap your head away.

Alessa stops, uncertain, but you just frown at her. Slowly, you grab her hand and press your palm against her. The warmth in your skin is almost a shock to Alessa. She did not realize she had lost feeling in her fingers.

“How long were you in that window?” you ask, not looking at her.

“I... do not know.”

You raise your eyes, and Alessa finds herself at the end of your scowl. “Are you out of your mind?”

Alessa puffs up. “‘Tis nothing."

“You're as cold as ice.”

“I do not need to be scolded like—"

You don't care to listen. Tugging her wrist, you lead her to the table where you left your bag and point at a chair. “Sit.”

‘No’ is at the tip of her tongue. Stiffly, Alessa sits.

You rummage through the bag and take out three boxes. Alessa watches on, unimpressed. “How will a paper box warm me?” she asks, but her voice dies in her throat.

Sweet, sugary, delicious smells fill the room. Alessa leans in when you open one box, and inside, she sees two mugs with a wooden lid on top. You take one and shove it in her hands.

It is warm and smells of chocolate.

“Has it gotten cold?” you ask her. “I can warm it over the fire.”

Alessa shakes her head. “'Tis fine,” she says softly. Her fingers cling to the mug, absorbing its warmth. She gazes at you, lost.

You jerk your chin at the drink. “Drink it, then,” you say and turn to the other boxes.

Alessa takes the lid off, and indeed, she sees hot chocolate inside. She takes a small sip, and her eyes roll back. 'Tis delicious. When she opens her eyes, she sees a couple of steaming buns in front of her, a bottle of honey, and, on the side, two perfect slices of elderflower cheesecake.

You sit on the other chair, silently reaching for the other hot chocolate. “I couldn't find pudding,” you say, “I tried all the stalls.”

Alessa puts the drink down. Slowly, she rises. “You have bought this for me?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

You look at her as if she's grown two heads. “Of course.”

She told herself she would not jump into your arms. Alessa breaks that promise. She leaps into your lap, and not-so-cold hands grab you as if you could disappear at any second. “You—"

What can she say? “Thank you, my dearest one,” Alessa whispers before claiming your lips with hers.

- - -

Alain taps his fingers against the table.

It's taking forever.

He eyes the sky, but the sun has long gone, so he can't guess the hour. It feels late, but it always feels late during winter. God, he hates it. The gloomy streets, the screaming wind, the frozen limbs, and, worst of all, the winter feast.

He spent the last hours smiling at painted crones and putting up with thinly veiled insults from his beloved family. If it wasn't for Ysabella and innocuous amounts of alcohol, he would have leaped out of a window. But now, finally, he's free, and his favorite little mercenary is nowhere—

The door to the tavern creaks open, and Alain's mood miraculously lightens. He lifts his glass when you stop by the entrance, your eyes shining in the low light, and the nobleman grins to himself at how you smile when you see him.

If he was a different kind of man, he'd be moved.

Alain gestures the bar wench for another drink and sits back, watching you walk across the deserted tavern. Most peasants are away at celebrations or hiding in their houses from the biting cold, which fits Alain just fine.

"Hi," you say, sitting on the chair beside him. You raise a hand as if to touch him but then stop yourself. "What should I call you?" you whisper, looking around.

Alain's grin widens. You're adorable. "I think you're safe to use Alain," he says, gesturing at the lack of patrons. "But you can call me whatever you want, sparrow.”

You send him a biting look that's more endearing than threatening. "Alain is it," you say, and once again hesitate. You've been hesitating about how to act lately, wherever you're together. Alain doesn't know if it's something he said or because the lines of your relationship are starting to blur.

Right now, he's too drunk to think about it.

So, he makes the decision for you. "You look lovely," he says, taking your hand. You really do. Alain detests the cold, but he likes how it makes your lips pinker and your lashes have melting snow on them.

Bringing your hand to his lips, the nobleman leaves a little kiss on your knuckles. "A true sight for sore eyes."

You try to hide it, but Alain spies your blush immediately. It amazes him, in a way, how you still get flustered after all you've done together. He can have you sprawled on his bed, naked, with his marks all over your body, and yet you'll still blush like a virgin when he calls you pretty/handsome.

I hope you never stop. Alain is too drunk to argue with himself about the mushy thought.

The barkeep arrives with your drink, and Alain regrettably lets go of your hand to tip her a silver coin. The woman smiles and leaves with a skip in her step.

"You look handsome yourself," you say when you're alone again, touching his coat shyly. You like velvet, Alain has realized. One of these days, he'll commission a velvet glove for you.

"I always do."

You smile. "That's true."

Alain raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Just like that? I didn't know it was my birthday, sparrow."

You laugh, the sound doing wonders to his bruised ego. “You look tired," you say, your hand moving up his chest to softly brush his cheek.

Alain resists the urge to tilt his head against your palm. "There it is," he says, his voice lowering. “Back to normal.”

You shake your head, your eyes flickering to him. He sees worry there and sympathy. "How bad was it, Alain?" you ask, your thumb slowly caressing his jaw.

You've never touched him like this. Alain asks himself why.

"It was the usual," Alain says and smiles. "Nothing to worry about."

But alas, his smile doesn't fool you. If anything, your little brows crease. "Please," you say, "you can tell me."

He's definitely drunk because Alain does. He tells you everything. When he stops talking, his tongue is dry, and the pleasant buzz he had going is mostly gone.

Feeling oddly self-conscious, Alain takes a big gulp of the cheap tavern wine. He looks down and sees your hand resting in his. When did that happen?

You sweep your thumb over his knuckles. "I'm sorry," you say, and Alain doesn't know what's worse: that you said it or that you meant it.

He waves a dismissive hand. "Look at me complaining. Bella told me there are people freezing, and I'm whining about family. At least I got to eat a warm meal." He suddenly remembers something. "Speaking of which—"

Alain reaches back and grabs his pouch. "Got you this." He puts the wrapping on the table and leans back, waiting for your praise. "It's duck."

You unwrap a big, generous pastry, still slightly warm. You smile down at it. Alain mirrors your smile, not realizing it. "I couldn't sneak out anything else," he says as you take a bite. "The servants seemed obsessed with collecting the leftovers."

"It's perfect, Alain," you say. "Thank you."

Then, you lean in and kiss his cheek.

Alain blinks.

You look down, biting your bottom lip.

Another kind of man would be moved. And maybe he's drunk, lonely, or simply sentimental, but this time, Alain is that kind of man. "Hey," he says, and when you look up, Alain claims your lips.

The kiss isn't lustful nor passionate, but it may be the most meaningful kiss he's ever had. Alain leans back just enough so he can look into your eyes. “I rented a room upstairs,” he says, your hand warm in his. “Come with me.”

You nod.

Perhaps this New Year will be better than this last — since he'll start it with you.

- - -

As you walk down the corridor, your steps echo in the hallowed, enormous walls. Round-top windows with stained glass depicting religious figures rise from floor to ceiling, looming on either side. The saints stare down at you, their glass eyes reflecting the torches lighted beneath them.

Your mark tingles, and you curl your left hand.

At least, you spot a door behind an antique organ. It's sturdy and small; you need to duck to pass through the threshold.

You emerge in a dark room without windows or other doors. The walls are shaped like an octagon, the divine shape, with a big cross on the far wall. Before it, on a long platform, you see Ysabella.

She lights candles.

Little red, squared candles. They're dozens, maybe even hundreds.

They're spread in neat little rows on the platform, some lighted, most dark. Ysabella stands in the middle with a burning stick in hand. She wears a long, heavy gown with beads on her braided hair. A thin veil falls down her face, and white gloves peek out from the wide sleeves of her dress.

You stop by the door, knowing she heard you entering. Ysabella doesn't turn around. She lights a candle, then bends her head and whispers a prayer.

The air smells of smoke, incense, and, very faintly, rosemary. You know it to be Ysabella's perfume. "Alain told me you'd be here," you say, walking forward. The flickering flames cast shadows on her golden complexion; you've never seen her more beautiful. More regal. More... unreachable.

Your mark burns now.

You stop beside her. Ysabella has her eyes closed, and her lips move silently. "You don't mind, do you?" you ask. Usually, you'd lean over and kiss her, but not right now. Once again, she feels far away from here.

Feels far away from you.

Ysabella finally opens her eyes. The brown comes alive with the flames, golden here, then black, then hazel, and she tilts her chin to smile at you. It's as warm and inviting as ever, but in the church, it looks ethereal.

"Why would I ever mind seeing you, my dear?" Ysabella asks and shoots out a gloved hand. Silk fingers touch your cheek before she leans in to leave a kiss on the side of your mouth.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," you lie. You definitely did, but you didn't expect to feel... like this. The saint's stare is burned into your mind. Leave, they say. You don't belong here. You stain these secret walls with your very presence. "I thought you'd be done with your prayers."

"Almost," Ysabella says, then tilts her head, looking you over. "Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

You force yourself to smile. "I'm fine, Bella," you say, reaching for her hand and squeezing her fingers. You wish you could feel her skin and not the glove.

Does she think the same about your glove?

"Finish what you're doing, I—" You must leave. "I'll wait outside."

But Ysabella has none of it. "Absolutely not! You'll freeze to death, and how will I spend the last day of the year? Alone?" She's smiling, but you forget to smile back, so her smile slowly dies. She looks you over a moment more, her face unreadable.

Then, Ysabella grabs your hand and puts it against her chest, right over her heart. "Stay here," she says in her noble voice. "I won't be long, I promise."

Her big eyes look at you expectantly, and you can't say no even if you want to. "Very well."

Bella beams, leans in for another wet kiss on your cheek, and turns back to her candles. You awkwardly stand beside her as she grabs the long burning stick, alights it with one of the lit candles, and brings its flame to another.

"I've been lightening them for the people of this city," Ysabella says, her voice reverberating in the closed room. "The hungry and cold, the sick and abandoned. By my own uncle."

You stare at her profile, bathed by praying light. You rarely hear Ysabella angry, but you hear anger in her voice. Dangerous, calculated anger.

The candle takes the flame and starts flickering. She puts the stick away.

"Who's that one for?" you ask.

Ysabella lifts her veil and faces you. "That one's for you."

"What?"

"For you,” Ysabella says calmly. “I pray for you."

Your mark hurts you, flaring out of spite. "There's nothing to pray—"

Ysabella shakes her head. The beads cling against each other. "I pray that whatever weighs over your heart eases, my dear. That light wards off the shadows looming over your head. I pray that the nightmares you try to hide from me cease to be, and I pray that, someday, you find the strength to share what that terror is."

Her face looks determined but not unkind. She looks at you with all the kindness in the world. "But most of all, I pray you forgive yourself."

"Bella—" you croak. Your throat has closed.

She steps forward and covers your mouth. "You don't have to tell me. I won't ask it of you. But I am here. I want you to remember it, and I want you to accept it."

She's disarmed you. You can say no more than: "I do."

Ysabella smiles beautifully. "Then I'm happy." She puts her hands on your chest and bats her eyelashes. "Now, kiss me. It's been too long."

You do, hand in her hair and tongue dancing with hers. And you hope, as you defile the House of the Lord, that Ysabella doesn't notice the tears in your eyes.

- - -

Tar-like eyes gaze upon a frozen wasteland.

Wind-wracked snowbanks spray ice upon the ground, killing all flora but the most resilient roots. The horizon line is gone, lost in a foreign land of blinding white.

The Pirate King's lips twist with distaste. The sight leaves a worse taste in his mouth than the ashes burning his tongue. He takes the pipe from between his lips and refills it, seeking any excuse not to look out the window.

One should always see the horizon. When it disappears at sea, it means you're heading for a storm or in the middle of one. Either way, it's bad news.

He's not an overly superstitious man — just the right amount for a man of the sea — but he's never once ignored the warning of his ancestors. And they're telling him to turn back around right now.

Behind, the door opens, and the King of Pirates doesn't have to turn around to know who entered this rustic little room. It's the reason why he won't jump ship and go away from this cursed land.

"There’s my pirate."

It's you.

"How do you landwalkers do it?" he asks, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

Your footsteps approach, your lightness of foot evident in the rhythm. He could recognize your step pattern, blind, deaf, and mute. He only ever needed to feel the floorboards. "Do what?" you ask and hang your arms around his shoulders.

His old chair creaks when you lean your entire weight over him, but the Pirate doesn't falter. You're lighter than him by a ton. "This," he says and points at the window. "Look at it."

He can feel your smile against his cheek. "Some would call it beautiful."

"Some are imbeciles."

Your airy laugh tickles his ear. The Pirate glances at you and realizes you're only in your chest wrappings. He almost lets the pipe fall from his mouth. "Have you gone insane, treasure?"

"Hmm?" you hum, pretty little eyes glued to the window.

He snakes his arm around your waist and brings you to the front. Not only do you lack a shirt, but you're also not wearing pants. Any other day, the Pirate would just take in the view, but not today. "What are you doing?" he asks, putting a hand against your stomach.

It's cold.

The Pirate gets up. "Go get a coat, woman; I won't have you coughing your lungs out."

He moves to get it himself, but you hold onto his arm, laughing. "I like seeing you all protective," you say, leaning close to his mouth. “Makes me all tingly.”

Once again, usually, he'd play into it. But not today. "Peach."

You tug him down. "Sit, my captain," you say, pulling his beard with soft fingers. You kiss his chin and then his mouth. "I'm fine," you say, smooching him once more. His hands move on their own accord, slowly tracing the line of your spine.

A man can only resist so much. Half amused, half frustrated at himself, the Pirate falls back on the old rickety chair, and immediately, you climb onto his lap.

He hugs you close, hoping to warm you, and doesn't fight when you grab his chin and kiss him. His eyes drift closed, lost in you, one hand roaming the plump flesh of your thigh.

So, you want to get warm this way. He'll give you whatever you want. It's funny how that works. Everyone always does what he wants, but time and time again, he finds himself caving to your desires.

One of his men said you put a spell on him. The Pirate cut out his tongue for the accusation, but sometimes, he wonders if the mute had a point.

He tilts his chin, deepening the kiss, but you lean away. "I'm used to it," you say beside his mouth, your forehead resting on his.

It takes him a while to process the words. "What's that, spitfire?"

You smile. Your hand is on his chest, under his vest, and that has most of his attention. "I said I'm used to the cold. It doesn’t affect me like it does to other people. I like it."

Something in your voice catches his ear. You're not simply making mindless talk; you want to share something with him. He settles back on the chair, ignoring the ache in his pants, and makes himself listen. "Do you?" he asks carefully.

You nod, your hair falling over your forehead. "I used to live in places like this," you say. He does everything in his power not to show his surprise on his face.

You never speak of your past. He knows nothing about it.

"In a hunting village in Castilla." You must see his blank look because you clarify. "It's up north the peninsula, but south of here."

That makes a lot of sense. You're like a fish out of water in his ship, but he's never met a better hunter on land than you. "Is it close by?"

"Not particularly." You look out the window, and your face goes blank. "In the winter, the weather was close to this. For four months, we'd be buried in snow. My friends and I always had the duty to shovel snow out of the church's doors." You smile absentmindedly. "We hated it. Well... most of us did. Piki didn't, for some odd reason."

You fall silent, and the Pirate doesn't break it. He waits for you to resume speaking, but you never do. Slowly, he opens his mouth. "You miss it."

Your blank face twists in pain. "I do."

The Pirate cups your cheek and guides your face to him. Your eyes are unfused, but he calls your name and waits until you're here, with him, again. "Grief," he says, "makes us human, but if let it fester, it becomes poison, peach."

He puts his hand against your chest. "Shed your tears, scream at that God of yours, and after, when you're spent, you move on."

Your eyes see him whole. "Do you feel homesick?" you whisper.

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I can't miss what I don't remember."

Your bottom lips stick out, and then you hug him. Your embrace is so tight that it knocks the air out of him, but the Pirate holds you close for as long as you need. You nestle your face in his neck, your warm breath raising goosebumps on his skin.

"Sorry," you whisper.

"Don't start with that," The Pirate says, tapping your back. "Go get dressed. I want to see this snow for myself."

He feels your lips stretching to a smile against his neck. "You don't need to do that."

"I don't need to do anything. But I want to."

Slowly, you lean back. "You don't. You hate the snow."

He does. But he supposes he likes you more. You must be some kind of witch after all, for he's sure he's under a spell. "I'm getting around to it."

"You sure? I don't want you grumbling about—"

"I don't grumble."

"— how it's ruining your pants and—"

The Pirate picks you up and throws you out of his lap. "Spirits, woman, just go."

You hesitate, then split into a brilliant smile. "Alright," you say and lean down to kiss him. It's sloppy and makes a loud smack sound. "I'll be quick!"

You leave running. The Pirate picks up his fallen pipe and sighs at the cold tobacco. "The things I do for love.”

- - -

The road is partly covered by fresh banks of pure-white snow.

Bare tree branches loom overhead with little pink buds closed tight, waiting for the coming Spring, and the sun is a blinding light up high in the bright blue sky. You walk with your eyes constantly squinted, and even still, the world is too bright.

Even your breathing is white, coming out in a little fog.

Beside you, matching your strides, is the tall silhouette of a dead specter. Neia is so silent that you often forget she walks with you. If it wasn't for the scrunch of her boots on the frozen ground, you'd believe you're alone in purgatory.

You walk on and on, and finally, you've had enough. "Are you cold?" you ask to the general air.

From the side of your eye, you see Neia's white head turning to you. "What was that?" The Dawnseeker's voice is raspy as if she hasn't used it for months. You wouldn't be surprised if that was true.

"I asked if you're cold."

Neia's boots break a little twig in half. She seems to be considering the question. "Not really," she says at last. "Why?"

"I was just making sure," you say, deliberately being vague.

A sigh comes from your side. "Just say what you want to say, sweetling."

You purse your lips and glance at her. Her yellow eyes stand out from the blinding white like two torches. Her hair, whiter than ever, frames her face, and you'd almost believe her to be a statue if she wasn't walking.

Once again, you're struck by how striking she is. "I was worried your tongue had frozen," you explain, "so I was glad to hear your voice."

Fog blows out of Neia's mouth when she chuckles lowly. She keeps walking, and you think she'll just fall back into silence when Neia speaks. "Are you cold?"

You are. Your toes are freezing, your legs are stiff, and you want nothing more than to sit next to a fire. "A little bit," you say.

Neia hums. "You're small."

"What does that have to do with it?" you ask. You're not small, but it's useless arguing that with Neia. She thinks everything is small.

"Small things get cold easily," Neia answers, her scarred lips stretching to a smile.

You narrow your eyes at her. "If my plight amuses you—"

Neia steps closer and grabs your hand, a giant hand dwarfing yours. You shut your mouth, looking down in astonishment. She's warm, you notice. Unbelievably so. Your fingers latch onto hers, stealing their warmth.

When you look up, Neia is looking ahead. "I— thank you."

She grunts.

You bite your lower lip and try quelching the butterflies flying in your stomach. You and Neia have been dancing around each other for over a fortnight now, but she's so hard to read that you've been treading lightly. She touches you at times, and you're the only one she smiles to, but she's never held your hand before.

You keep walking, hand in hand, the road curving gently to the east. The stronghold shouldn't be far now. You find yourself opening your mouth. "My other hand is freezing."

Neia silently moves to your other side and grabs your hand.

An incline, more bare, sad trees. You slowly move your thumb up and down her pointer finger, feeling the little cuts and scars that give texture to her skin. Glancing at her, you see Neia watching the distance with alert eyes, her other hand resting on the pommel of her black sword.

You lick your lips and try your luck. "I'm still cold."

Yellow eyes slide down to you. "We're near."

"But we're not there," you point out.

She watches you for a moment. "Do you want my cape?"

"No."

Neia frowns. "What do you want? Say it plainly, sweetling."

She says the nickname in a low, rumbling voice, and your shiver isn't due to the cold. "A kiss would warm me."

Neia stops walking. You do, too, your hands still linked together. "A kiss?" Neia asks, but you see the slight tilt of her scarred lips.

"One kiss."

She lets herself smile. "You still want to know if my tongue's frozen?"

You flush. "There's no need for tongue," you say, but you wouldn't precisely oppose it.

Neia's eyes pierce yours. You fidget under the oppressive stare, wondering if she is trying to read into your soul. Then, when the silence becomes too much, you break it. "I was— only jesting," you say, looking at your feet.

"Were you?" Neia drawls, and you jump when she sounds so much closer. You lift your head and see her looming over you, her sharp face next to yours. "That's a pity."

A big hand cups the side of your neck, and before you have time to think, Neia's lips descend on you.

You were right. It warms you from the inside out.

Neia kisses you slowly, almost mockingly, but you don't mind it. You grab her fur cape and let her lips do what they will with yours. When you're breathless, Neia opens your mouth, and your eyes fly open when you learn that, indeed, her tongue isn't frozen at all.

After that, all the snow in the world couldn't touch an inch of your skin, so hot it had become. The Winter Solstice had just begun, warning of the end of the year, but you couldn't have asked for a better end. Here, on this nameless, frozen road.

- - -

The garden has lost all color.

Where usually hues of pink, blue, and purple would jump at you from every flower bed and shrubbery, now the pathways are grim and grey. Wherever green foliage prevails, it looks closer to brown, less alive, muted.

Even still, Lance finds it beautiful.

Winter has a special kind of charm, a different stroke in the air. When he was in the monastery, winter only meant that he was colder at night, and at the height of the solstice, he would be granted one small cup of wine.

Now, the ex-monk finds little pleasures everywhere. In the frozen wind, there are the carried sounds of distant laughter. In the fog coming out of his mouth, there's the certainty of vitality. His nights are colder, but they're no longer spent alone. He enjoys how you cling to his back, trying to steal his warmth all to yourself, and how Chouriça sleeps nestled against his chest, snout buried in his throat. He likes hot beverages and sweet indulgences.

Life and death are an ever-turning circle. Lance sees winter as an end, but it holds the promise of a new beginning.

He shakes his head, getting rid of melancholic thoughts, and his blue hair sways on his shoulders. It is longer than he usually wears, but you like to treat your fingers through it while he plays the lyre, and so far, he hasn't found it in himself to cut it. Perhaps after winter, when the cold is gone, but not now.

Lance takes his eyes off the streetlamps, glowing orange in the ever-darkening twilight, and looks at the person hanging from his arm. You rest your head on his shoulder, silently walking with him through the garden.

Your hair smells faintly of saffron. Lance smiles when he realizes you are wearing the fragrance he has bought you. He has always enjoyed the quiet, but suddenly, Lance wants to hear your voice. "Do you know the tradition of exchanging gifts?" he asks softly.

You stir on his shoulder. "Gift-giving?" you ask. You often tell him how you like the musical accent in his voice, but Lance could write a song about the timber of yours. You rarely raise it, but there is a strength in it that captured him the moment he met you.

"Gift-giving, amatus/amata, yes."

You rotate your head, and pretty eyes look up at him. "For marriage?"

Lance laughs. "I don't speak of dowry, no." He pokes your side. "Is that where your mind is?"

"You wish, Silverthread," you say, smiling. "What's this about the gifts, then?"

Lance holds you closer to him, a hand snaking around your waist. "When I was translating ancient texts, I came across a manuscript describing different kinds of traditions in each region. Some the Church took as their own, others were strange, involving herbs and trances, and others were violent — sacrifices, human or otherwise."

"Sounds like a good time.”

Lance kisses the crown of your head. "But one stood out to me," he continues his tale. "In Mesopotamia of old, it was custom for people to exchange gifts with their loved ones. Sometimes, even with strangers."

You lift your head from his shoulder, your eyes twinkling. Now, you're interested. "Why?" you ask. "When?"

Lance has always appreciated your curiosity. "During this time, the bruma solstitium. I—" Lance tries to recall it. "Found references to someone, or something, quite important that was being celebrated, but I could not make sense of them."

Your cheeks are flushed with the cold, your lips are rosy-pink, and Lance finds he cannot stop smiling. " Mesopotamia," you repeat. "I swear I've heard the name.”

"Most likely, you heard a bastardization of it. It was not too far from the Nile, where you grew up. To the east, on fertile lands."

"Yes!" you exclaim. "Yes, I recall! Locals spoke of it in hushed whispers because it was not to be mentioned."

A shadow passes over Lance's features, but he doesn't let it sour his mood. "I was thinking we could take up the tradition," he says tentatively, drumming his fingers on his leg. "Of gifting each other... and friends."

You stop walking and hold his arm to turn him to you. Then, with a smile that could put to shame the best illuminated drawings of old, you lean in and kiss his cheek. "I would love to.”

Lance's golden tooth flashes. "Then it is done," he murmurs, softly touching your cold cheek.

You rest your hands on his shoulder and lean forward. Lance closes his eyes—

But you shoot away from him. "Wait!" you say and take off running.

Lance watches, dumbfounded, as you run to a nearby tree and leap to a lower branch. Your dexterity has always amazed him, even when he saw you climbing the Devil's Bridge and nearly fall to your death. But now, Lance is a bit more attached to your person.

"Careful," he shouts, rushing towards you, but you do not hear it. You climb to a higher branch and lean your whole body forward, fingers reaching for...

Lance squints his eyes. A bush of sorts. Hanging on the tree.

Finally, you grab it, smile in victory, and jump down. Lance catches you before you get to the floor, softening your landing. "That plant better have golden leaves," he says, not masking the bite in his tone.

But you step away and turn your back on him. "Wait," you say, your hands moving fervently.

Lance raises an eyebrow. Risk of breaking your neck aside, he is curious. Finally, you discard most of the plant and turn to him, holding a few leaves. It has round white flowers on it, and it is not particularly appealing.

You hold the made-up bouquet above your head and step closer, smile tilted. "I have another tradition for you," you say, putting the bouquet above his head.

Lance looks up. "Are you to beat me with it?"

You laugh. "No. This is mistletoe."

Lance looks down. "Yes?"

You giggle again. "It is said that if two people are under the mistletoe, you must kiss, or bad luck will befall whoever refused."

Lance stares at it. "What kind of pagan belief is that?"

You wiggle the mistletoe. "Do you care?"

The bard considers you. "No," he says, and steps close. "No, I do not."

He grabs your face and kisses you deeply. Best not to anger any sort of god.

- - -

A pair of soft, warm lips kisses up your neck.

You eye the window of your improvised bedchamber, watching the rain assault the dusty glass. It's been raining more and more, day in and day out. The sound of the downpour has engraved into your brain, mingled with your thoughts, and paced your emotions.

You cannot stop hearing it.

Thud

Thud

Thud

The lips press at the bottom of your chin, and distantly, you feel a pair of hands roaming your chest.

Thud thud thud

Your eyes glaze, the rain reflected on the mirror-like irises. Soon, the world will drown, and you'll drown along with it.

The lips kiss the side of your mouth. They're warm and chilly at the same time.

Your marked arm pulses in tandem with the rainfall. It has long stopped hurting. Now, it only calls.

Thud

The lips get to your mouth, kitten licks along your top lip—

You hear your name. "Where are you?" Vallen whispers, grabbing your lip between her teeth and softly biting.

You tear your eyes away from the window.

Thud

And answer by kissing her. Vallen mewls when you pull her against you and flush her body with yours. Her long, golden hair flows freely, tickling your face and neck. You turn your body on the bed, and she rolls on top of you, hiding the window and pushing back the cold.

You hoister her leg on your waist, palming along the naked tight as you part her mouth to deepen the kiss. Vallen makes soft, breathy sounds, and you focus on those, pushing the pitter-patter of the rain out of your head. "Take this out," you grunt, pulling at her night dress.

Vallen sits up on your lap and throws the dress over her head. You reach for her breasts, but she puts a hand in the middle of your chest and stops you. "Tell me."

You pull her hips.

She pushes you back. Round, hazel eyes peering into yours. They see you whole. You need it, but sometimes, you hate it. "Not now," you say, but your voice is not as harsh as before.

Vallen is unforgiving. That's what attracted you to her. "Now," she says, but leans down, breasts flushing with your chest, to peer at you closer. "I want to know."

You exhale, slumping back on the bed. Rolling your head, you look out the window. "The rain.”

Vallen presses her face to yours, cheek to cheek. "Again?"

You would nod if you could. Instead, you move your fingers down the line of her spine. You can feel goosebumps on her skin. "You're cold," you notice.

"What about the rain?"

"Can you not take a no for an answer?"

You feel her smile against your lips. "You know the answer to that, lover."

You palm her ass and admit defeat. "I was drowning."

Vallen lifts her head and looks down at you. "It must mean something."

"It means I'm scared of water," you say with a humorless chuckle. You join your other hand on her ass, rolling it against your thigh. "Pathetic as that may be."

"And I'm scared of the dark," Vallen whispers, round eyes wide open.

Once upon a time, that would have worked. "Liar."

She giggles and kisses you softly. You reciprocate, but you're not surprised when she pulls away. You know she isn't done.

You sigh and bite her throat. It leaves a pretty little red mark.

"But I'm serious," Vallen says, voice slightly wavering. It seems your ministrations are finally working. "If you keep having reoccurring thoughts about it, then—"

You squeeze her ass as you press your knee against her core. Vallen moans.

"I— It must have..."

"Hmm," you agree, biting her neck, her jaw, her earlobe. She's turning putty in your hands, and the cold fades into the background.

Vallen throws her head back, whining wantonly. You smile wide against her ear and speak like rust on metal. "Did you know this is the last night of the old year?"

Vallen's nails dig into your nape. You put your mouth beside hers and bite her lip. "I want to spend it with you screaming in my ear.”

You drown in her, and for a while, one night, you don't feel the calling of your mark nor listen to the madness of the rain.

- - -

A group of people dances in a wide circle.

Poles with hanging lanterns shoot out from the darkness and shroud the market in a soft, orange glow. Smells of honey, nutmeg, cinnamon, and spiced wine spread over the stalls. The night air would be frigid, but it isn't; it's made warmer by the massive bonfire, the countless cauldrons cooking, the incense burning, the laughter, the children running, the dancing, the toasts, the life of a celebration.

Half in shadows, you sit under a closed stall, watching it all from afar. You're on a stool, feet propped on an overturned barrel, and a cup of warm mead rests between your hands.

You take a sip, eyeing a couple spinning together. They're laughing, cheeks flushed, and joyful smiles. Somehow, the sight is sweeter than the meat coating your tongue. Almost nauseatingly so.

Rafael nurses a tall mug of beer on the stool next to yours. He takes a big gulp and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "They're gonna play again," he says, his words half-slurred. "I bet ya."

You smile faintly and look at the improvised band of minstrels. They're no Lance; their music is mostly out of tune, but they're merry, and you think most adults are too drunk to care either way. "They're not that bad."

"It's like twisting a knife in my ears," Rafael complains and then groans. "God's bones, they're doing it."

Right on cue, the band starts playing a shrill, grimacing-inducing song.

You shake your head, swallowing a laugh, and decide not to argue. Rafael is animated tonight, talkative, and boisterous. You... like to see him like this.

You slowly thumb the wooden cup, looking down at your hands. To say you were surprised when Rafael invited you to the winter market would be an understatement. But it's been even more surprising that he's bought you this drink and even offered to buy a strawberry tart.

Did you offend him? Perhaps you should have accepted.

"Unless you like it?" Rafael's voice brings you back to the presence. You look at him and see him eyeing you uncertainly. "I didn't mean to offend ya."

"Why would I be offended by a silly song, Rafael?"

He looks away, his hand tightening on his mug. "Don't know," he murmurs. You can barely hear him over the loud violin. "You're all... soft-hearted."

His brown eyes have darkened, and you find that you can't hold his gaze. You look down again, your cheeks warming. "You didn't offend me," you say softly, "no need to worry."

From the corner of your eye, you see Rafal opening his mouth... then, closes it and sweeps a frustrated hand over his hair. There's a beat of silence, filled by the terrible music. "Hey, are ya done?" Rafael breaks it, hopping down his stool. He points at your cup. "I need a refill. I can get you another."

You're not done. "That's alright," you say and smile gratefully. "Thank you."

"Right." Rafael hesitates. "Do you... want anythin' else?"

You shake your head. "I'm good."

He nods, goes to leave... but comes back. "Are you bored?" Rafael asks, stepping in front of your stool. "If you don't wan' to be here, we can go. Or... whatever you want."

"I'm not bored," you assure him. "Do I look bored?"

"I don't know! It's hard to tell with ya. But you're not smiling much, and you usually smile so—" Rafael stops himself.

He breathes out and continues in a lower, somber voice. "You can tell the truth. I ain't a little boy; no need to spare my feelings. If you didn't want to come, you could have said it."

"I did want to come!" You step up, leaping out of your stool. "I just, I don't know—"

You bite your lip, unable to say it. Are you wrong? Are you about to make a complete fool of yourself?

Rafael waits, staring at you intensely, but at your prolonged silence, he snaps. "What?"

"I don't know what this is.”

His eyes squint, not understanding, then they widen in shock, and lastly, Rafael closes them "Bloody hell," he says lowly. "You're serious?"

Your cheeks are so hot, they could boil an egg. "Yes," you say, crossing your arms defensively. "I don't want to make assumptions, but you're paying for my drinks, and..."

Slowly, Rafael opens his eyes. "You can make assumptions," he says, almost supplicant. "This was supposed to be made assumptions."

"And if I'm wrong?"

"You're not wrong," Rafael says and steps close. His hand jerks, but he keeps it to his side. "You're never wrong. Not once have you been wrong."

He's so close, all you'd need is to extend your finger, and you'd touch him. "Then what?" you say because you want to hear it. You deserve to hear it.

This close, you can see his flushed cheeks, and when they darken, you realize it's not all due to the alcohol. "I want you," he croaks. "To be with me. I’ve wanted you for..." He shakes his head. “If ya want, softie, you got me.”

You do want him. You reach out and grab his hand. Rafael jerks at the contact, but he immediately grabs you tightly. "Take me dancing," you ask of him.

Raf's eyes reflect the light of the moon. "Ye. I can do that." He leads you by hand to the center of the market. There, you loop your arms around his neck, and he holds your waist as you dance slowly to a disjointed song.

You can't look away from his eyes, gazing at you in wonderment. And it's natural, then, almost as if you're pulled to each other by an unseen force when you get closer and closer...

And Rafael's lips meet yours in your first kiss on the last night of the year.

- - -

These are all a bit scattered, and there is no central theme to unify them all. I kind of just let the characters take me to where they wanted.

I wanted to use Christmas (and the New Year) as a theme, but as much as I love the Holidays, the theme isn’t very inspiring to me when it comes to writing. 😅 Still, I hope you enjoyed this! I had a lot of fun writing it. ♡