wolfe. (abstention) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-02-23 21:37:00 |
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Winter was slowly ebbing away, the days becoming longer and longer—he could feel it in his bones, Emillion warming by degrees and the streets thawing and icicles shrinking in the shopkeepers’ windows. But come the morning of Aquarius 25th, there was still a heavy layer of snow and frost on the ground, crunching under Wolfe’s boots and his breath steaming in the air as he made his way towards the cathedral district. A thinly-wrapped package poked slightly out of his coat pocket (which was large and shabby, the seams fraying in said pockets despite Araceli’s meticulous repair of the man’s wardrobe). When he saw the arithmetician in question waiting on the steps by the stone monastery (he wondered, for a moment, how this place compared to her childhood in Kerwon), Wolfe’s stride lengthened, despite not intending to. Araceli waved to him as he approached and moved to meet halfway, almost bouncing as she took two steps at a time. “Still cold out,” he said, his shoulders creeping up in an attempt to keep warm. “I’m sorry in advance if this walk ends with you hospitalised for hypothermia, at which point I take full blame—after so much time in Ordalia, I think I forgot how long Valendian winter lasts.” Talkative like an ever-rolling brook, as always, easy and comfortable around her: as always. “I am dressed for the weather,” assured the younger mage as she leaned in to welcome the man with a hug. Wolfe’s hand splayed across her shoulder, a gentle pressure before releasing her and stepping a careful distance away. Tugging her scarf to reveal her mouth, she broke into a soft grin, the smile spreading across her once-placid expression like a crack in a frozen pond. She cupped ungloved hands to her face and exhaled onto them. Without thinking, Wolfe already fished his black gloves out of his other pocket and deposited them with Araceli, a mindless gesture of helpfulness—he didn’t need them, he rarely felt the cold. (An unexpected yet useful side-effect of his new specialty.) Her gait steadied to match his, feet sinking to leave prints that whispered we were here, we were here until the next pedestrian wiped them away. “How long,” Araceli echoed and converted to a question, “before spring?” “There’s a month and a bit left until the spring equinox,” he answered cheerily, wading his way down the street and through the snow. “Which means we’re close to the tipping point, if not proper spring yet—it seems winter might have its grip on the city for a while yet.” A ripple in the water, a thoughtful crease of his brow: “I’m rather looking forward to it changing, honestly. I can’t practice certain aspects of geomancy until the earth warms, thaws, and the plantlife comes back.” Araceli skipped ahead as he woke, gracefulness hindered by the bulkiness of her boots. She spun around to face him again, speaking as she walked backwards for a few steps, “You must teach me the plants here, the herbs.” “Hah. I’m not sure if you should trust me with that, Celi.” For a man who resorted to such a distant surname for himself, her nickname rolled smoothly off his lips. “I’m not much of an apothecary. I’m still learning how to make the vines answer when I beckon.” The arithmetician threw back her head, hair flipping in an frosted gust, and laughed more gently than the gesture may have indicated. At a street lamp, she swerved to avoid collision and returned to her place in step with Wolfe. She shot him a look of mock frustration, youth brimming in her eyes as she raised her brow. “Do you say please?’” “I’m not sure yet how well they respond to politesse, or how effective it’d be as a motivator—but I suspect the ivy is very well-behaved indeed. Perhaps I ought to try.” He’d looked impressed at Araceli’s backwards walk, letting out a low whistle as she neatly sidestepped the lamp and skittered back into line. The urge was there: to reach out, to link his arm through hers, to guide her steps through the snow that swallowed their boots, but Wolfe held back, his hands still shoved into his pockets (and covering the gift-wrapped parcel). And his dark eyes, in glancing away from the soon-to-be-birthday girl, found something more promising. Wolfe nodded towards a small coffee hut set up in the corner of the park, its proprietor bundled up in the kiosk, the man’s face barely visible through layers of scarf and hat. “Hot cocoa?” “Sí, por favor,” she responded in her mother tongue (and with please, no less, as the ivies might appreciate). Her hands moving in a delayed echo of his, she reached into her own pockets for her wallet. Before she could, however, Wolfe’s hands stopped hers. “No. It’s your birthday tomorrow; it’s my treat.” She opened her mouth to protest but resigned to him, instead: “Thank you.” “It’s nothing.” A beat. “It’s tradition.” His smile was a little lopsided. A second time could make a tradition, couldn’t it? The Disciples all celebrated on St. Namorados Day itself, a cheerful and talkative dinner with all of them chatting over the other and breaking bread together, but Wolfe had made a habit of taking her out the day before. As they lined up for the hot drinks to warm their hands, he finally dipped into his pocket. “For you,” Wolfe said, handing over the parcel: it was small but it had weight, hard edges and soft sides. A book. Araceli caressed the wrapping with her thumb in silent awe, biting down on the urge to tear it apart. She held the package close to her chest, hugging it with both arms as though it was ten times as heavy. “For me! Thank you,” she said again. “Thank you.” “No matter. It’s just another year.” Wolfe’s smile fluttered across his face, ghost-like, before he looked aside. And so, with that exchange done, they crunched off through the snow with their conversation moving at a gentle susurration. Wolfe’s bare hands curled in his now-empty pockets, while Araceli’s were clad in his gloves, gripped tight around hot cocoa and the new book, her arm looped through his as they discussed matters of little import. |