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Leon Strohl de Haliaetus stands at the viewing platform underneath the great shadow of Grand Trad. The city sprawls for seemingly miles, and, for all intents and purposes, goes on as normal. The people mutter and talk and whisper, still anxious and afraid. Children run and play, unaware of shadows that stretch out in the dark. Birds fly in clustered groups, high above, searching for something, forever and ever.
It is a normal day in Gran Tram. Except for one thing.
It is snowing.
There is a tap on Strohl’s shoulder, and he turns around. Before him is the sheepish grin of Basilio, his arms crossed and slightly slouched. He is wearing a heavy coat, bordered by an immensely furry trim.
“Y’alright, mate? Been lookin’ out ‘ere fer ages now!”
“It's nothing, Basilio. Really,” he replies, avoiding the paripus’ gaze.
“Nothing, eh? Well, a little birdie tells me you've been a little stressed. About our dear Hulkenberg,” Basilio continues, his grin growing wider. “Got a little crush, have we?”
“N-no! It's not like that!” he shouts, and some ambling members of the public look at him strangely. His voice grows quiet. “It's a mark of respect. Respect, Basilio. Same as for you, or Captain. Respect.”
Basilio’s grin stretches across his entire face.
“Oh. Aye. Respect, eh? So that's why you've got us all a wee gift, is it? Oh- no, wait. It's just Hulkenberg you've been shopping for. Gallica saw ya, ya know. Looking at all those necklaces. Asking around for the latest fashion ‘n all.”
“Basilio- look, really, this is totally beyond the pale-”
The paripus slaps him on the back and laughs, loudly.
“I'm only teasin’! Cap’n told me you might need a little chat before hand. He's worried you’ll get cold feet.” He pauses and considers for a moment. “Not that I'd blame ya. She scares the livin’ hell outta me!”
“And this is meant to be encouraging?” Strohl says, only a hint of derision seeping through.
“Well, no point bein’ dishonest about it. So. Whaddya get her?”
Strohl reaches into his pocket. Inside his familiar tan coat, he can feel the small box he has bought her. Inside is a ring, golden and gleaming, with gems from all the corners of the world embossed within it. She often spoke about a ring. Some passing comment, something that he can only recall snatches of, of her own wistful gaze. In any case, it is beautiful and ornate, crafted by delicate hands, and sometimes, when the light shines through it just right, and it catches the ruby embedded within, it casts a light almost the same colour as her crimson hair.
“Erm, some jewellery. Nothing special.”
“Gies a look.”
“No! I-I’ve wrapped it. So I can't take it out. Obviously.”
Basilio looks at him sideways.
“You better not have gotten her something tacky. She hates tacky.”
“I haven't!”
“Good. Honestly, Strohl, I think you'll be fine. Right as rain. Or snow! Just- try not to piss your pants, will ya?” Basilio says, guffawing. For all his crassness, and wanton unhelpfulness, Strohl cannot help but laugh too.
“Look, I best be goin’.” Basilio looks up to the sky and stares. “Never thought I'd see the day snow’d fall on the capital. Guess things are changin’. Slowly, like, but changin’.” For a moment there is a wistful expression on his face, as if he is remembering something from out the past.
“Basilio?”
“Sorry, spaced out for a moment there.” He tucks his coat higher around his neck and nods sagely. “Knock ‘em out, mate!’ he shouts, as he walks away, waving as he does so.
Strohl waves back, politely. He takes a deep breath in, and, with a new sense of purpose, begins to walk through the snowy streets.
She is standing beneath the boughs of a tree, its branches shorn of leaves, and a light dusting of snow upon it. Her usual attire is now amended by a long trench coat, equally dark in colour, that runs to the cuff of her boots. She seems to be lost in thought, studying the tree intently.
He coughs, and waits. Hulkenberg does not move. She stands there, stoic, still studying the tree.
He coughs again, louder. She stands there, stoic, still studying the-
“Oi! Hulkenberg!” Strohl shouts, fed-up. At long last, she turns around, only mildly surprised.
“Strohl! How fortuitous it is to see you! Won't you come and examine this with me?” she says, gesturing for him to come over. Carefully, he does so. A part of him is worried she has found some awful, revolting new beetle species that she wishes to eat.
“What is it?” he asks, as he comes closer.
“I believe it to be a marking of some kind. A message perhaps? Captain asked me to look around for anything suspicious, you see.”
He looks at this mysterious mark for a moment, then back to Hulkenberg, and then laughs. It is a sincere laugh, one full of mirth and joy.
“And what is so funny, pray tell?” she asks, imperious and annoyed.
“Hulkenberg- bloody hell! It's a- you can't really have no idea what this is? Two names separated by a plus sign?”
“Some kind of hidden confederacy, whereupon this is their meeting place? The marking of an execution? Some strange, supernatural solicitation?”
“God- no! It's- kids do it. They etch their names into trees. Or rocks. Or anything. Were you rouissante too posh for that?”
“But- why?” she says, ignoring the slight entirely.
“Well, usually to indicate… love.” His hand traces the grooves on the tree. It is old. Likely older than the city. Older than they will ever be. “To say that their love will last as long as this tree does. Silly, really.”
“I don't think so.” Her hand moves to the lower part of the etching, just beneath his. “For such a childish pursuit, I must confess, I see a certain charm to it.”
He watches her expression, serious and focused. There is no hint of insincerity upon her. “I suppose you're right. It is quite sweet, after all. Though I've never done it.”
“That does not surprise me much, Strohl.”
“Hey!”
“You have never seemed the sentimental type.”
“Oh.” He is mildly relieved she does not think he is a total loser. Probably.
“In any case, what brings you here? Especially in this strange and unforeseen weather,” she asks, turning to him once more.
He can feel his face burning up. It is now or never. His fingers dart into his pocket, as he rolls the box over and over on his hands.
“It's- it's nothing much. Just- do you remember Captain's novel?”
“How could I ever forget!”
“Well, I was looking at it. For old time’s sake. And, I was struck by a page that mentioned something about giving gifts.”
“Oh, I know this one! Something about how during the coldest time of the year, loved ones would exchange gifts with friends and family alike. To remind them of the virtues of charity and generosity, and to help those in need. That section, yes?”
“Y-yes.” He can feel the blush burning his face now. He is sure he is redder than he has ever been before. “And so- I thought I would get you something. Not much, just a token of appreciation.”
“My word, Strohl, how kind! And I've nothing to match this generosity!” she exclaims, suddenly taken aback.
Wordlessly, he removes the box from his pocket, and, wrapped still in newspaper cuttings, he proffers it to her. She takes it from him carefully.
“May I do the honours now?”
He nods. She slowly peels the wrapping, and he watches the shreds of paper fall to the floor amongst the drifting snow. She opens it up and gasps.
“It really wasn't much, Hulkenberg. I saw it in a shop window, and I thought you might want-” he begins, but stops abruptly.
She is crying. And not a singular tear, but a great flood of them, and he can hear her choking sobs. He watches, dumbfounded, as she puts the ring on, her tears still streaming as she looks upon it.
“Hulkenberg? Are you okay? Have I done anything wrong?” he asks, alarmed.
“Goodness, no!” she says, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. “I'm just so very taken with it. In fact- and this is most puerile- I had wanted just such a ring when I was a little girl. But whereupon I joined the knights, there was soon little time for such frivolities. What I mean to say, Strohl, is thank you. It is a lovely gift.”
“Almost as beautiful as you,” he says, and then clasps his hands on his mouth. Something about her manners, her eyes and their loving, intense gaze, her voice so full of longing- he hardly realised the words he was saying.
She steps a little closer to him. He cannot move. Basilio was right. She was scary.
“I told you, I have no tangible gift to give you. Will you settle for this?”
Her hand reaches under his cheek and tilts his face upward. He can feel flecks of snow land and melt on his skin. He can also feel her lips upon his, her hair falling against his shoulders, and the heat of her body as she presses up against him. Her other hand reaches for his back, pulling him closer. He does not know what to do. All he knows is that her noble kisses are so inviting, and so warm- he can feel himself melting into her, as if he were a snowflake himself. She is so very beautiful, and every moment he opens his eyes to check that this is happening and it is not a dream, is a wonder that does not escape him.
They break apart, and the knightess steps back, smiling.
“I trust that was satisfactory?” she asks, cooly.
He murmurs something incomprehensible, and before she can say anything else, he runs, gangly and awkward as ever. She cannot help but watch him fondly. Strohl is a brave man, she knows. Kind and good to his friends. She looks down at the ring. And so loving, in his own way.
The snow picks up, and the wind rises higher. Great swirls of whipping white flakes arc around her. It is time to go in, and time for them to move on once more, for the good of all the people in this lands.
She takes her sword, and points it at the tree. Carefully, she strikes it, marking it precisely underneath the etching that already exists. She looks at it, and nods affirmatively. Upon the tree is a new marking now.
H + S.
She begins walking away too, her long coat billowing around her.