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Snow was not uncommon in Sharlayan, yet it felt most appropriate this late afternoon.
Wrapped well against the chill in a hooded robe and more besides, Urianger Augurelt could look out across the city of resplendent white from where he stood upon the Studium's slope. Flakes drifted from the slate gray carpet of cloud to drape themselves delicately upon buildings which seemed little changed by their touch and greenery that was rather more transformed ere long. Few were about at this hour, preferring warm homes and halls with the company of people, books or both to the cold caress of the wind.
But he had made a promise. A meeting had been arranged. And so he waited, hooded as ever, even in warmer times that was not unusual. He found himself longing for a tome, though of course the snow would wet the pages if he had one and that would not do. Perhaps he might have brought one and sat in yonder gazebo-
A call of his name lurched Urianger from what might have been to what was, and the elezen turned to find his dear, only friend there. Moenbryda, head bare against frigid gale, hair tumbling into a wind-tossed fall on one side yet shaved into short rows on the other. She wore a smile so naturally even though she must surely have been freezing, a coat thrown on her only deference to the winter. A satchel hung from one shoulder and each gloved hand held a faintly steaming mug.
“Moenbryda,” he greeted in kind. “I had considered seeking shelter in yonder gazebo.” He gestured to it, and she chuckled.
“I stopped by the Last Stand,” she confided, passing him one of the mugs. “I heard they'd a fresh batch of cocoa and how could I miss out, or let you miss it?”
Urianger took a careful sip, why, though uncomfortably warm on his tongue the drink was even finer than she suggested, rich going down his throat and soon spreading its heat wonderfully. “I thank thee most kindly,” he smiled from beneath the hood. “Twas good of you indeed to think of me thus.”
“It's what a friend should do.” She nudged him playfully, not enough to move him a fraction of an ilm. When others did such, as they had oft done before Moenbryda drifted into his life like an iceberg carried by the currents, it was with much more roughness. Even in this nation of scholars, Urianger had surmised, his demeanor attracted unwelcome attention no matter how the faculty might bid their rowdier students leave him to his tomes.
Moenbryda had brought a rather more decisive end to the matter.
They wandered together away from the white facades of the Studium and out onto the headland, away from what few people still braved what was turning from snowshower into what might charitably be defined as a blizzard. Even so, Moenbryda seemed unfazed, no attempt made to cover her head as snowflakes settled on her gray hair and brushed across her face.
Urianger found himself wondering why, not for the first time nor surely for the last. They were unalike, he nestled in his comfortable corner with hood raised against the world and nose deep in an old tome, she brash and bold and throwing herself into social situations with a confidence he might never find. People were... strange. At every turn, he felt as though he spoke only half their language, that the subtleties of their demeanor eluded him, that he misunderstood their meaning whether they meant to deceive him or not.
And yet, Moenbryda did not falter. With the patience of a mountain, it seemed to him, she stayed by his side, ever cheerful, ever present, never asking in return even when anxiety bade him venture such a suggestion. She took him to the Last Stand and did not complain as others might when he brought a tome, and before the exodus had sat with him in the Great Gubal Library eating together. They walked Sharlayan together and she showed him sights he might have otherwise missed with eyes beneath his hood. What she gleaned from him in return he did not entirely understand.
He was thankful. To the very heart of him, he was. At first he had turned aside her attempts to reach for him, fearing that they were, as others had been, but veiled cruelty. But she had persisted, and persisted further still, until the only explanation that held the ring of truth was that she was sincere. At times, he found himself regretting that he had not allowed her close sooner, that he had robbed himself of precious moments of her friendship with the frosty manner in which he had received her to begin with. Thank the Twelve that she had proven too determined to be pushed away with such ease.
The cliff yawning before them brought them to a halt, gazing across the ocean out toward the distant shores of Eorzea proper. Urianger imagined it at times from his readings. The pirate haven of Limsa Lominsa, built in the sea's embrace. The lush forest of the Shroud and Gridania at its core. Sun-baked Ul'dah, rich in gold and gems. Might he see those places one day for true, with eyes of the flesh rather than the mind?
Moenbryda stared out in uncommon silence, regarding the horizon. He wondered what thoughts passed through her head, at least until she drained the last of her cocoa and crouched to set the mug in the snow.
“I'll take them back on the way back,” she chuckled, catching his look as she stood. “But we can't well unwrap presents one-handed now, can we?”
“No, I suppose not,” he answered, with a little smile of his own. He took the carefully wrapped bundle from under his arm and passed it to her, taking the hefty weight of her satchel in turn with surprise.
“Merry Starlight, Urianger,” the roegadyn grinned.
“Merry Starlight to thou, Moenbryda,” Urianger replied, and though his own cocoa had been drunk as well he felt warmth regardless.
Bracing against sharp gusts of wind, they opened their gifts in tandem. Perhaps it might have seemed passing strange to some that Sharlayan, known for its stoic and scholarly mien, might still celebrate such a thing as Starlight, yet Urianger knew he and Moenbryda were far from the only ones who would be opening presents across the city. Mayhap there was a meaning to be found there, had he the words in which to put it, but words were lost upon the unveiling of what she had gifted unto him.
A tome, as he had suspected from the satchel's heft and the parcel's shape. But no mere tome, at the same time. It was luxuriously bound in fine leather, intricate patterns inked in gold across its surface. He recognized them from his readings, astrological signs, the bole and the ewer, the spear and the arrow, more besides. He brushed a hand across the cover and felt the smooth detail there, the inlay, the rich adornments. The elezen could not help but lean closer and take a breath, the scent of an unread book ever pleasant to smell.
“Moenbryda, thy gift-”
“Now, don't you dare say it's too much,” she teased him, in that way that seemed more warming than a roaring fire. “I've no intention of returning it, not when the merchant isn't due back for months.”
“Truly?” he gasped.
Moenbryda laughed, staring at him with hands still in the midst of unwrapping her own gift. “Urianger, do you think that I would give you anything less than the best I could find? Truly?”
“Nay... I would never presume such of thee,” he smiled in answer. “Thou art uncommonly kind, Moenbryda.”
“The way I see it, people are uncommonly unkind to you,” she grumbled, and continued her unwrapping. “Oh... Urianger.” She lifted the woolen bundle, unfurling it into the scarf it was. Thread drew patterns across it that Urianger had hoped she might know, he had read about Sea Wolf culture to find suitable elements then delivered a most exacting specification to the weaver he had approached. After some seeking of clarity with regards to his more antiquated turns of phrase, the weaver had readily accepted his challenge.
Full glad he was of the result, and his praise and thanks both had been as extensive as the original specification.
Moenbryda stared along the scarf's length, taking in the patterns. Animals were recognizable even in abstract forms, bears and wolves chasing moons and suns across a field of midnight blue. The wool was fine, and certainly had not come cheap. But much as she with the tome, he would spare expense he could afford if it meant a finer gift for his dear friend.
His only friend. Though she would see it be otherwise, one day, so she oft said.
The roegadyn wrapped the scarf around her neck experimentally and hummed approval, her smile growing. “Very kind of you to think of me, Urianger.”
“I would not wish thee to fall ill,” he murmured. “A warm scarf may shield against such.”
Her smile twitched, a chuckle slipping out. “A warm fire may do more.” She reached down and plucked the finished mug from the snow. “Pretty as this view is, what say you to reading your new tome in front of the fireplace?”
“I say that such a thing would be most welcome indeed,” Urianger replied. “And especially so with thine company, Moenbryda.”
She wrapped her arm around his shoulder, gently for her, ready to let go should he flinch away from the physical contact. But he found himself accepting it more readily than he had in the past, when touch had seemed to lead to pain or embarrassment. Not so with her.
“Come along, then,” the roegadyn grinned, and tugged him with her off toward the Last Stand to return the mugs. And hence, to comfortable armchairs and a roaring fire in a warm room.