"Close your eyes and hold out your hands," Nate told him.

Theron blinked at him, green eyes narrowing in suspicion. His Constable—among other things—met his gaze steadily.

"You know I don't like surprises." Or celebrate human holidays.

Ah, what holiday was it even this time? Satinalia? Six years, and he still couldn't keep them straight; really, he just wanted to slip into nowhere and be forgotten when the shemlen started getting weirder than normal.

Nate didn't respond, just kept his steel gray gaze on Theron.

A minute later, with a reluctant sigh and a muttered, "Fine," he closed his eyes. Immediately, he could hear movement, the brushing of fabric and quiet thuds of leather boots on the floor.

"Good," Nate said next to his ear, and Theron could see the quietly pleased, smug but subtle quirk of his lips, and he couldn't even see. "Now hold out your hands, Warden-Commander." his voice wasn't as close this time, but he was still obviously within arm's reach.

He complied, again, and held up his hands, palms facing up.

Nate riffled through his bag, before placing what feels like a carved stone in his hands.

Theron brushed his thumb over it; it was smooth and polished, he could almost discern the figure without his sight. Almost, but not quite. He was tempted to look, but instead he investigated it more with his fingertips, finding what he believed are antlers-

"I saw it while we were in Amaranthine. I thought you would like it." Theron cocked his head curiously, and Nate added, in his naturally wry voice, "I've been holding onto it for a while."

His forefinger brushed over what felt like a scruffy mane- "Is it a hart?"

"It is." Nate confirmed.