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Cold could not begin to describe the weather in Regna Ferox. The wind chill bit into the bone, and the snow blinded anyone who dared to travel through it. It was only September, but this blizzard only foretold the harsh winter ahead of the Feroxi.
It was a cold September, but it couldn’t be colder than Lon’qu’s heart. Specifically, this day.
The sixteenth of September was the one year anniversary of his marriage to Azrael. The auburn haired woman pelted her way into his heart, quite literally. The fig incident was memorable, and thereafter his experiences with her were only more and more bizarre. But he loved every minute of it.
Of course, at first he found the woman infuriating. Her harassment of him was parallel to Maribelle’s, but somehow… Maybe something about those big brown eyes and the way she flicked her hair back after a sparring session was what made him open up to her. Their first embrace he could still feel. Her warmth was something he missed.
He had returned to Ferox after the battle with Grima. Their son, Morgan, stayed in Ylisse and replaced Azrael as tactician. The boy proved he was just as competent as his mother. Morgan visited often, and Lon’qu was always happy to see his son’s joyful smile, the smile all too similar to Azrael’s.
Often, Lon’qu found himself sparring. His fear of women, while not completely gone, because old habits die hard, had lessened, and he was able to handle a spar or two with Flavia, and he didn’t mind dancing with Olivia. Dancing with her improved his footwork, and he implemented it in his training. The more versatile he was, the better warrior.
He became Basilio’s right hand man again, and was the Champion. There was talk of him becoming the new Khan, but Lon’qu wasn’t too sure about it. Basilio was jovial, cordial, and exuberant; Lon’qu could be downright dour at times, and felt his leadership skills were lacking.
Nonetheless, it would be an interesting position to take if he were to take it.
He had enough of staring out the window observing the frigid weather, and was heading to the dining hall for dinner. He could hear Basilio’s roars of laughter and Flavia’s indignant retaliation. There was a clang, and he knew the two had gotten into some drunken fight again. Why the two didn’t marry he would never know; their independence of each other, yet their clear liking of each other was as obvious as ever.
Lon’qu was almost to the dining hall when he heard a door creak open, as if the one entering wasn’t sure if they had the right door. He turned, waiting to see if perhaps it was a new recruit, and his breath hitched in his chest and for a second his mind went to a complete blank.
There was Azrael, before his very eyes. Her hair was still pulled back into her signature half ponytail, the top half tied into a bun, the lower half flowing down her back, with tiny braids on either side of her face. Her brown eyes were still kind, and she still wore her signature tactician's cloak. He noticed the mark on her hand was gone. Good. This world was rid of Grima.
When the battle ended, and Azrael was gone, he had said he knew she lived, that she wasn’t the dying sort. He believed that, and still did. But even so, knowing she might one day return yet hadn’t, he was still heartbroken and missed her. A few women, having heard he had married despite the phobia, had tried to flirt and fawn over him, but he rebuked their advances. He only ever wanted one woman.
“Hey, Lon’qu,” she said quietly, almost embarrassed.
He didn’t say anything. He rushed to her and gathered her into his arms, squeezing her as tight as he could. This had to be a dream. Or maybe he had died. She was here, warm, alive, breathing, heart beating fast against his, arms clasped around his waist. She heard his breath shake.
“Lon’qu, are you crying?”
He shook his head against her, his face burrowed in her hair. She still smelled like grass and old parchment and candle wax. But she was right. She was always right. He was crying, all too shaken by her appearance.
“When did you return?” He asked into her hair. He still hadn’t let go.
“About a week ago. Chrom wanted to send a messenger, but I told him I wanted to see you for myself. Morgan is also here. He’s taking my bags to our room.”
He pulled away, looking her in the face. She saw how his eyes were red around the rims, his face flushed. “You’re staying?”
She widened her eyes, and laughed at his surprise. “Of course I am! I love you, and I never want to be apart from you again.”
A single tear slipped out of his eye again. His smile was the biggest she had ever seen.
She returned the smile, as happy as he. “By the way, happy anniversary.” She kissed the tip of his nose.
He smiled, nuzzling his face against her forehead. It was a gesture she would never share. Lon’qu was incredibly cute in private. Azrael had never seen him so happy. “I… I love you, Azrael.”
“I love you too, Lon’qu. Let’s go crash that dinner party.” She winked.
They held hands, his face as red as ever, her smile as radiant as ever, and they walked into the dining hall like newlyweds, his hand tight around hers, never letting go.