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“It’s like ten degrees out, Marianne.”
“Oh, c’mon, it’s not so bad.”
Linhardt von Hevring is very comfortably nestled into the living room couch, most of his body hidden under at least three blankets. If not for the muffled beeping emanating from within the pile, an onlooker may not even realize he’s there.
“It is. It’s freezing. It’s literally the coldest day of the year.”
Marianne protests. “It’s snowing, Linhardt! It’s a special occasion.”
“Never stopped me before.”
She sighs. “Surely you can put down your DS for, like, half an hour.”
Linhardt looks up from the device in question, an almost spiteful look in his eyes, to meet her gaze.
“I just want to go for a little walk. It’s not that cold out. Really.”
He says nothing, but looks away. The beeping from the DS resumes.
“Come on,” she presses. “For me?”
Sigh.
Not even Linhardt can keep up the bitchy act around Marianne von Edmund. He closes the game and peels away his patchwork of blankets. “You’re relentless, you know.”
She fetches his coat - a massive, weighty thing far too large for someone of his stature - and smiles at him. “You’re no better.”
He smirks, and takes the beast from her hand. “I know.”
With half a sleeve draped over his arm, though, he stops. Marianne is practically out the door already. “Actually, just... just gimme a few minutes. I need to beat this Gym Leader.”
---
It’s early afternoon, and about an inch of snow has built up on the sidewalks. It rarely snows in Rosgrove, tucked away in central Leicester, and when it does, the city seems to implode. Store shelves of bottled water and canned foods vanish into thin air as hordes of anxious residents panic about losing their power, dread the thought of three feet of snow blocking their front door. It never happens, of course - nobody even remembers the last time there was a foot - but the mass hysteria is more or less a tradition.
Now that the storm has hit, though, near all is quiet. Save for the occasional car braving the over-salted roads, and a few dauntless, fur-coated pedestrians, the city is still. Snow is still falling, light flakes drifting lazily between the buildings.
Marianne steps out of the apartment complex beside a shapeless blob of dark green coat.
“So.” Linhardt can clearly see the breaths carrying his words. “...why’d you drag me out here?”
“You really don’t like snow, do you?”
“Not in the slightest.” He shoves his hands even deeper into the warmth of his pockets. “We never got any in Hevring. Because it was warm.”
Marianne giggles. “Good thing we never went back to Edmund, then. You’d hate it there. It’s even colder.”
“Oh, I know.”
She nudges him in the arm. “Sometimes, it even drops below sixty.”
He cracks a smile. “Just dreadful.”
“The worst. Why do you think I left?”
A car speeds by, comfortably fifteen below the speed limit, hood covered in snow. A thin white film coats all its windows. Church stickers adorn its bumper.
“Anyway,” Marianne continues, “I wanted to check out Caister.”
“Square? The big park?”
“Oh, yes. It’s a few blocks down that way.” She gestures vaguely to her left with her elbow.
“Long as it’s not too far. If we spend too long out here, I might freeze over.”
She laughs again. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
---
The light at Ryde and Banister Street has been down for five days. Everyone in the city jaywalks anyway, and there’s no traffic to speak of in the storm, but it bothers Linhardt every time he journeys outside the apartment.
“They really need to fix this thing.”
Usually, there’s some poor social worker standing in the center of the intersection, haplessly gesturing cars to stop and go and wait and please-hold-the-fuck-on. They’ve gone home now, and the only hope any wayward driver has of navigating these hostile streets is a blinking yellow traffic light.
“Someone’s gonna crash sometime.”
He makes sure to look both ways before crossing. No one’s coming.
“Maybe,” Marianne returns. She’s fixated on a pigeon trudging through the snow on the opposite corner.
It turns to look at her. She waves, and runs to catch up with Linhardt.
---
“You know, I really don’t think you need this big of a coat.”
“You think?” He raises an eyebrow. “Not all of us are so well-adjusted to the cold, Marianne.”
She giggles. It’s nice, when she does that. “It’s really not that bad. You better get used to it, if you want to stay here.”
“Oh, I do,” he resigns. “But I do wish it was a bit warmer.”
Linhardt briefly removes a thick-gloved hand from his pocket to rub his eye. Marianne grabs it before he can hide it away again.
“Seriously, that’s got to be thirty pounds of coat. It’s almost as heavy as you.”
“It’s comfortable!” he insists. “You and I just have different tastes in... coat.”
He squeezes her hand tightly, and nearly slips on a patch of ice.
---
Jervaulx Street is a sort of test for weeding out tourists or newcomers in Rosgrove. A shibboleth. A tourist will pronounce the X. A tourist who thinks they’re smart will leave it off. A true citizen, however, knows that letters have lost all meaning, and that Sothis looks down on Jervaulx Street with contempt.
Linhardt still has to remind himself of this.
“Jervole.”
“Close,” Marianne corrects. “It’s Jervaulx.”
“Jervough?”
“I... think you got it. There’s no L. It’s just Jervaulx.”
“If there’s no L, then why do they still spell it with an L?” he complains. “There’s at least three unnecessary letters in there.”
“That would be no fun, would it?”
Another car passes behind them as they cross the forsaken road. This one drives even slower.
“I probably should’ve learned this by now, considering I live right across from the place,” he muses. “But it would be easier if they just spelled it in a way that made sense.”
“Many things would be easier if they made sense, Linhardt.”
“Surprisingly deep.” He takes a cautious step back onto the sidewalk, ever wary for more invisible ice patches. “Jurvoh.”
“No, no no. It’s more like, Jervaulx.”
---
Proximity to Holloway Street Public Library was one of the main factors in Linhardt’s apartment choice.
Granted, it’s not the biggest library in the city. As anyone could tell you, that’s A. C. Ordelia Library at LU-Rosgrove. A twelve-story behemoth towering over the rest of campus, with something like a million and a half different books hidden in its shelves. But unfortunately for Linhardt von Hevring, Ordelia is “only open to students” at two in the morning. So Holloway will do.
It’s closed today anyway, though, thanks to the snow piling up on its lawn. Worthless, he figures. Knowledge doesn’t wait on the weather.
Marianne doesn’t share these thoughts. “The library looks pretty.”
“It does,” he agrees. “I just wish it were open. I needed to pick something up earlier.”
“Linhardt, you and I both know you weren’t setting foot outside that apartment. Not unless I dragged you out.”
“Yes, well, here I am now. Maybe there’s a back entrance...”
“No.”
He scoffs. “Fine.” He was only half joking.
---
“You know,” Linhardt muses as they cross Riegan, “you really do seem happier now.”
She looks up at him. “What- what do you mean?”
“You were talking about leaving Edmund earlier. You seem a lot happier, now that we’re down here.”
“Oh, um. Yes, I guess I am.”
They step over the curb, and Marianne loosens her grip on his hand.
“I just... I couldn’t stay there any longer. I couldn’t take it.”
“I understand. I was the same way in Hevring.”
Her voice is quieter all of a sudden. “Everywhere I went, I just felt like... people were staring. In a bad way. But here, no one even knows.”
“Or cares,” Lin chimes in. “Goddess knows I couldn’t have lived there, either.”
“Mmm.”
Marianne stares down at the snow-coated pavement as they walk. The crunch beneath their feet is growing louder.
She’s a different kind of silent now. Linhardt knows this kind. He takes his other hand from his pocket, and reaches over to grab hers. “But that’s all gone now. All in the past.”
She looks up at him, and draws out a smile. It’s forced. It’s not hers.
“No one else to worry about. No parents, no onlookers, no anything. Just us,” he reassures her.
“Just us,” she repeats.
“Just us.”
There’s her smile. He pulls her into a brief, but warm, hug, and they keep walking.
---
Linhardt’s phone buzzes.
He lets go of Marianne’s hand to fumble through his pocket. The gloves he’s got on are far too thick to use a phone screen, unfortunately, so he guesses he’ll risk frostbite to see this assuredly unimportant text message. Sigh.
Ashe: Hey what are you up to rn?
“Oh! It’s Ashe.”
“Oh?”
“He’s asking what we’re up to.”
Marianne perks up. “Oh! Tell him to meet us at the park! I think he lives right near there.”
Linhardt: Mari and I are going to coaster
Linhardt: Caister
Linhardt: If you want to join us
He shoves his hand back into his glove, and waits for a response as Marianne crosses the street.
“Wait, is the park not on Park Street?”
“No,” she yells back. “It’s on Caister.”
“I hate this city.”
---
On the corner of Caister and Ryde is a cozy antiques shop Marianne knows well. It’s one of her favorite spots in the city, and many of its little trinkets adorn her apartment. It’s also one of the few remaining corner stores this deep in the city; all of its neighbors have been bought out by massive out-of-town corporate chains. It’s all Starbucks and Chipotles and Walgreens and offices, except for here.
The store is closed now, of course, and slathered in Saint Cichol’s Day decorations. Marianne smiles at her reflection as she walks by.
Linhardt’s phone buzzes again, and he sighs again, and removes his glove again.
Ashe: Do you mind if I bring Petra?
“Do you mind if Ashe brings Petra?”
“Not at all.”
Linhardt: Not at all
Back in the pocket it goes.
---
Caister Street is a major thoroughfare in downtown Rosgrove, so it gets most of the holiday decor. The streetlights are wrapped in gaudy ribbons and fake garland, tiny white LEDs scattered throughout. The bus stops and subway entrances are similarly defiled. The city council aims for the aesthetic of a Saint Cichol’s Day movie, but it usually just feels fake. Joyless. Completely lacking in Cichol’s Day spirit.
Linhardt doesn’t care for the holiday anyway, but he does wish they’d try a little harder.
Marianne, again, doesn’t share these thoughts. “I love the decorations.”
“I think they look better in the snow,” he replies. “They seem a bit cheap without it.”
She rolls her eyes playfully. “Always one to suck the fun out of everything, aren’t you?”
“Well, look! I just think they shouldn’t try to capitalize on the aesthetic if they’re not going to commit to it! It’s just boring, is all. There’s nothing original.”
“Alright, Mr. Holiday Spirit, how would you decorate Caister Street?”
“I don’t know, I- I don’t have an eye for this kind of thing. I just know when it’s bad.”
She pokes him in the side. “Well then maybe don’t go critiquing it all the time, silly.”
He smiles back. “I can’t help being a genius.”
The lights on the Heath Avenue Starbucks flicker out as they walk past.
---
The skyscrapers of Rosgrove aren’t nearly as striking as those of Derdriu, or as numerous as in Enbarr, but they have their own charm. They’re less overwhelming, for one thing; they feel more natural, and less like vast, overblown creations of Fódlan commercialism. Plus, from a certain point on Ventry Avenue, about a mile and a half out from the city center, they all line up just right, and it almost looks like a real city. They use the same exact shot in every single Rosgrove tourism advertisement.
One of them sticks out like a sore thumb, though. Juniper Tower, headquarters of the Gloucester Financial Corporation, is Linhardt’s sworn enemy. Most of the skyscrapers in Rosgrove at least have the decency to be visually appealing in some way, but Juniper Tower is a hedonistic monument to mankind’s hubris - a grotesque, gold-encrusted mirror obelisk that looks far too thin to be structurally sound, slathered in Gloucester’s unholy name and undoubtedly haunted by the ghosts of the houses dozed over to build it. Or worse yet, businessmen.
Not to mention, its food court is appalling. For all that money, you’d think they could find better Caesar salads.
In the late afternoon, the tower casts a long, dark shadow to the east, and it’s five degrees colder in its shade. Linhardt wraps his arm around Marianne’s waist and pulls her warmth closer to his.
---
Caister Square is a bit of an anomaly within the city of Rosgrove. It’s more or less just a patch of preserved forest. There’s no baseball fields, no playgrounds, no parking lots, just a big green square in the middle of downtown. The only manmade structures are a handful of sidewalks, a short brick wall around the edge, and a small artificial pond in the middle. It’s forty acres of literal urban jungle.
There’s no fanfare about it, either. All that lies at the entrance is a small, engraved sign with the name of the park. Snow is building up on the letters.
“We should probably text Ashe,” Marianne suggests. “It’s easy to get lost in there.”
“Agreed.” Linhardt whips his phone out a third time.
Linhardt: Where did yall want to meet us
Linhardt: We’re by the entrance
Linhardt: At caister and carroway
He brushes some snow off the wall and makes a seat for himself. Marianne joins him. It’s coming down harder now, blanketing the city in an ever-deeper sheet of pure white.
“I do like the look of snow,” he comments. “Even if it’s a bit too cold for me.”
“Oh do you, now? Maybe you’re not such a grinch after all.”
He cracks a smile. “I don’t hate the holidays, you know.”
She casts him a doubting glare. “Oh, really? Is there anything you like about them?”
“I like the time off,” he thinks. “And the... general aesthetic. Like, the colors.”
“Mmm.”
“And the trees,” he adds. “And... the smell, of the trees.”
“Ooh, that’s a good one.”
His hand is on hers again. “And the lights.”
She laughs. “Oh, come on, you were just complaining about the lights!”
“No, no no! The good lights! Like the ones they put on the big tree in that one building. The big tall one.”
“Ah, yes.” She gestures vaguely to the four skyscrapers within eyeshot. “The big tall one.”
“Ugh, you know what I mean! The one with all the... whatever. Point is, there are good lights, and I like them.”
“I’m sure there are.” They smile at each other once again.
“Oh, and there’s like, one Cichol’s Day song I like,” he continues. “Most of them I don’t like, but there’s a couple that are actually good.”
“Mhm.”
“Also those little white chocolate candies they only sell for the holidays. And the vanilla frosted snowman donuts.”
“Oh, those are good.”
“So good! But they only ever sell them for, like, a month! I don’t see why they shouldn’t make them all year. From a pure business standpoint.”
“Nothing ever makes sense in this world.”
He grins. “Not a damn thing, Marianne.”
Marianne softly rests her head on his shoulder, and Linhardt leans against her in return. He closes his eyes for a moment, and she lets out a peaceful sigh. He goes on about the joys of the holiday season, and he misses the buzz of his phone.
---
The winding concrete trails of Caister mostly lie abandoned; not a single set of footprints has disturbed the snow before them. The branches of the trees above are burdened by its weight. The air is still and silent, save the slight occasional breeze; the streetlights scattered down the way, the sole reminders of the outside world.
In fewer words, there’s nobody around.
Linhardt’s arm is linked with Marianne’s, his hands still in his pockets. Mari gently kicks the snow as she walks, lightly bouncing back and forth.
“I wonder if the pond is frozen over,” Linhardt mutters, mostly to himself. “It’s cold enough.”
“Only one way to find out,” Marianne answers.
“I s’pose.”
A pair of small blue jays suddenly darts across the path, roosting on the snow-covered armrests of a nearby wooden bench. Caister is a haven for the birds, just big enough to host a few small populations rarely seen in the streets of Rosgrove proper. The birds brave enough to make their nests here, though, are well familiar with humans, and surprisingly comfortable around them.
Marianne, especially, seems to have the magic touch for the city’s birds; the jays barely even react as she approaches, two small berries in her open palm. Linhardt watches from afar, careful not to scare them off, as they feed from her hand.
He takes her hand again as the birds fly off, satisfied. She waves as they disappear into the trees.
“You know, I will never not be impressed by that.”
She grins, proud. “I just have a feel for animals, I guess.”
“I’m serious!” he insists. “I’ve never seen anyone do something like that with a wild bird. You’re like... Cinderella.”
Her cheeks are flushed bright red, and not just from the cold. “Noooo, I’m not...”
“Or maybe Snow White? I think she had a thing for animals...”
She leans into him, smiling, blushing, embarrassedly clinging to his arm. Cinderella.
---
The meager pond at the center of Caister Square is not, in fact, frozen over. It’s cold, to be sure, and devoid of the usual ducks, but it’s not ice. The small granite plaque at its edge, dedicating this unremarkable pool of water to some local politician of years long past, is buried in the snow.
Linhardt pops off one more text to Ashe, to let him know they’ve made it, and finds a place to sit down. Marianne, ever unencumbered by the snow, sits beside him.
For a minute, they sit in silence. The falling snow is thinning, now; it was never going to last that long, anyway. Still, it flutters downward, twirling chaotically through the air. Dancing towards the earth.
“Hey,” he says, prying himself from the ground, “would you do something silly with me?”
“Sure.” She takes his outstretched hand, hoisting herself up. “What’d you have in mind?”
“Dance with me.”
That’s a new one. “What do you mean?”
“I mean just- I don’t know, it’s- it’s silly. Just... follow my lead?”
She giggles. “Alright.”
And then his hand is at the small of her back, and hers at his shoulder, and they’re... dancing. They’re doing something that, on some level, vaguely resembles dancing. It’s stiff - at first - and slow, and a bit awkward. They have no music to guide them, only the silence of the snow-covered clearing. He steps on her foot, on accident, and recoils, and smiles at her. She returns the favor, on purpose, and smiles back.
He loosens his grip. “Sorry, this was... weird, I just... we can stop now if you-”
“No.” She cuts him off, and pulls him in again. “Don’t.”
He makes no protest. “Alright then.”
And they’re settling into it. The rhythm. The beat of each other’s movements. They can feel each other, sense each other, find each other’s tempo. Wordlessly, he tries a spin. It’s not perfect - the snow, melting underfoot, lacks the consistency of a ballroom floor - but it’s there, it’s an attempt. It’s a spin. She’s pulling from the etiquette lessons her father gave her, years upon years ago, a memory buried deep within the confines of her past, but a memory nonetheless. She can dance, and he can dance, and in the silence of the snow-covered clearing, they’re dancing. Together.
And then, suddenly, together, they’re speeding up, clicking up the tempo on the soundless metronome governing their hackneyed steps, spinning round each other faster. And they’re smoothing out, moving more elegantly, sweeping side to side more fluently, stepping over and across each other more effortlessly, sailing over the snow without resistance, two leaves adrift in a gentle breeze, holding fast to each other’s warmth, calmly spinning in the silence of a snow-covered clearing.
And she’s looking at him, and he’s looking at her, and she’s spinning faster, and he’s spinning faster, and the world is spinning ever faster, and then she’s still, and he’s still, and his hair is in his eyes, and for a moment, time has stopped, and the metronome no longer ticks, and it’s feeling, all feeling, only feeling, that governs their quaint little improvised dance, and she takes a single step, and she’s gliding over the snow, flying, soaring through the open air, no longer trapped within the snowy clearing, she’s free. She’s free. The park is gone, the city is gone, Edmund is gone, Hevring is gone, there’s no one left to tell her what she can and cannot do, who she can and cannot be, there’s only Linhardt, and he loves her, and she loves him, and they’re alone, and they’re together, and he’s smiling, and she’s smiling - she’s fucking beaming! She’s shining like the goddamn sun, and she’s beautiful, and she’s radiant, and she’s Marianne von Edmund, and there’s not a soul in all existence that can make her think otherwise.
And in the sheer fucking bliss of the moment, she doesn’t even notice that she’s back in the silence of the snow-covered clearing, and she’s falling, and she’s on the ground, and Linhardt is on top of her, and he’s there, and he’s lovely, and he’s wonderful, and he’s warm, and he loves her, and she loves him, and she doesn’t even notice when their lips lock together, and they’re there, and they’re all alone, lying in the middle of a snow-covered clearing in Caister Square, with no parents, no onlookers, no anything.
And as she lies there, panting, catching her breath, Linhardt collapses onto her, laughing, crying tears of unbridled joy. She’s surrounded by his warmth, and him by hers, and they’re alone, and they’re together, and that is all that fucking matters.
“I...” he gasps between breaths, “I fucking love you, Marianne.”
“I love you too, Linhardt,” she whispers, sniffling, euphoric. “I love you too.”
They lie there, cradled in each other’s arms, for a final few wondrous moments, before they’re thrust back into the real world when Linhardt gets a text.
---
It’s very possible that the only living human with a coat larger than Linhardt’s is Petra Macneary.
Born and raised in the overpowering tropical humidity of Brigid, Petra has yet to fully adjust to the cooler weather of Fódlan. Like many from her homeland, she knew of snow, but had never personally seen it until she left the archipelago, and she certainly hasn’t acclimated to Leicester winter now. Even wrapped in all these layers, she’s a bit too chilly for comfort.
When Marianne takes a friendly jab at the hefty mass of faux fur and cotton draped over her body, all she has in her defense is a simple “It’s cold!”
“Thank you!” Linhardt chimes in. “Finally, someone who agrees with me.”
Ashe, on the other hand, native to the bitter cold of Faerghus, is thriving, unafraid, in his element. He doesn’t even have gloves on.
The snow has stopped now, and the sun is dipping below the skyline. It’s surprisingly dark all of a sudden. The wind, too, has calmed, and much of Caister’s wildlife is returning to their homes.
“So,” Petra speaks up. “Where to?”
“Mari and I have just been sort of, walking around, I guess,” Linhardt answers. “We didn’t really have a concrete plan.”
“Neither did we,” Ashe admits. “We were... sort of hoping you guys had something in mind.”
“We could go check out the Hill,” Marianne suggests. “I haven’t seen their lights yet this year.”
“That’s a bit of a walk, I think,” Ashe notes. “I’m fine with it, though.”
“Same,” Petra agrees. “And there’s a good Almyran place right over there.”
“What about you, Lin?”
The Hill is probably a half-hour walk, minimum. It’s freezing cold, it’s getting dark, it’s a Saturday evening, and nine times out of ten, he’d rather spend times like these curled up on the couch.
“No complaints here,” he replies. He can wait. After all, it’s really not so bad.
---
By the time the four of them pile back into Linhardt and Marianne’s apartment, it’s nearly ten o’clock. They drop their shoes and coats and gloves, still damp with melted snow, by the door. Linhardt turns the space heater up as high as it’ll go, and Marianne throws a few hot cocoas into the coffee maker. Ashe puts a virtual fireplace on the TV screen. Petra pulls the pile of blankets off the couch, and they gather round their fake little makeshift hearth, warmed more by each other than by anything else.
Linhardt takes Marianne’s hand. It’s cold, still warming up from outside, but it’s soft, and it’s hers. Their eyes meet, and she smiles, and he smiles back. She nestles her head comfortably into his shoulder. He looks down and gently brushes a hair from her face before wrapping his arm around her and pulling her closer. Cocooned within the blanket, the heat from their bodies melds and blends together, swirling, mixing into a beautiful spiral of color, and love, and joy.
It’s the coldest day of the year, and Linhardt has never felt warmer.