December 24, 1918
Weiss crossed the street to the post office with two envelopes in her purse, ignoring the people who stopped to gawk at the bun of her hair dipping from her light winter headwear. Turning a new leaf was a proving a bit complicated; these Americans were a people of mixed cultures almost alien to what she had gotten used to in Eastern Europe. Though it did bring a mild familiarity of Remnant.
"Morning, Miss Schnee," greeted the postman from the warm comfort of his booth.
"Good morning, Charles," she greeted back, forwarding her the letters across the table.
Charles offered her a sympathetic look before picking up his pen. "I don't think a lot of ships would heading up to Russia this time of year but we'll try."
"Thank you."
"What about this one?"
"That's for the Bismarck Tribune."
"Have something to say, eh? Can't say I blame you."
"I thought I'd lend my voice to the matter."
The postman nodded. "Yeah. If you ask me, they should send our boys home. The war's over, after all. No sense getting involved, you know. Helping the Russians kill each other."
Weiss kept her mien neutral. The Great War finally ended a month ago via an armistice signed inside a rail car out of all places. But that did not mean that the fighting stopped. Soldiers were still out in the field, risking their lives, staving off frostbite while burying themselves in the snow to hide from Bolshevik marksmen. Journalists and pundits echoed war weariness. Families were writing letters to the government asking for the return of their sons and brothers.
And after enough time, thought, and deep-seated conversations with the Romanovs, Weiss decided to lend her voice in this whole affair via an anonymous letter to the state newsletter. Besides, it had been a while since she wrote a letter to Jaune what with how busy they were moving around the continental United States before finally settling into their new property in the rural plains of North Dakota.
"How fast can you get it there?"
"Well, Bismarck's only a day away even in this weather. Russia, though...I can't say. Honestly, you should've just used the telegram. Much quicker that way."
"I have my preferences."
Charles shrugged as he gathered her letters. "Suit yourself. Say, I got this nagging thought though. I hope you don't mind me asking."
Weiss raised her brow. "What is it?"
"I mean no offense. Just curious." He twiddled his thumbs nervously before continuing, "Are you friends with Forked Lightning? You know, that famous French soldier who survived getting shot and blown up ten times?"
The former heiress let out a long sigh. How many times did she have to entertain that query?
"You don't have to answer! I was only asking—"
"Yes. I know him. Is that enough?"
Charles nodded. "Good enough! Uh, have a good day."
"Likewise."
"Oh, almost forgot. Merry Christmas!"
Weiss paused halfway through the door. "Merry...Christmas...to you too, Charles."
Jaune ushered his squad across the unpaved road towards the blockhouse hastily constructed by the Americans. He bit his lip at the agony searing up from his feet which were suffering from the snow melting in his boots. Inside, the steam of warm milk graced the skin on his bare face and he savored the heat radiating off the mug given him by the lieutenant commanding their regiment.
"Good work out there," the officer commended in fluent English.
"Thank you, sir," the blonde sergeant replied modestly.
"Anything to report?"
"Nothing." Yet. Jaune suspected the farmers they had passed by on their way here were informants. "Anything happen here, sir?"
Lieutenant Thibald Vastel shook his head, downing his cup and peering through one of the portholes. He withdrew then repeatedly tapped against the table until he had the attention of the entire platoon.
"Bon travail!" The officer then raised his cup. "Joyeux Noël!"
Jaune watched the rest of the soldiers—some of whom were still shivering from the cold—raise their cups with meek smiles.
"Joyeux Noël! Joyeux Noël!"
The blonde sergeant hid his mirth as everyone raised their voices in festivity to this winter holiday. He nursed his mug, savoring the warmth from his milk. This was probably the only time morale would be this high. Last month's armistice took away the biggest motivation for this campaign.
The Great War was over. Germany was defeated. The Allies were victorious. But they were still here in Russia losing their fingers and toes to frostbite, wondering why they were still fighting.
"Joyeux Noël, Jaune," echoed Baz with a clap on his shoulder.
The blonde sergeant gazed into his drink. This holiday was about giving and sacrifice. Suitably, they were giving their all and sacrificing their lives. Jaune's old self would have scoffed and gladly accepted the inevitable fate of dying forgotten in these frozen tundras. But Weiss...
She would be waiting for him.
She was waiting for him.
A condolence letter would be the most cruel Christmas gift.
"Joyeux Noël," Sergeant Jaune Arc finally answered with a toast, mind resolute and caring less about fighting to destroy Bolshevism than fighting until General Ironside would finally send him home.
The manor house was decorated with enough lights to illuminate a dark urban alleyway. The Romanovs had insisted on a modest Christmas dinner with their friends. Instead, Weiss was chauffeured by Mister Trupp into a small holiday ball held and financed by the exiled Russian aristocratic nobility.
It was more a formal event than a genuine thanksgiving for their harrowing escape from the Bolshevisk and rescue by the interventionists. At least the American government staved off any journalists. Weiss could easily foretell that in the next hundred years, the media would be no different than the hungry gossipmongers of Remnant.
"Isha, you're back," greeted Anastasia in a shimmering cream gown. "We started two hours ago. I was looking for you!"
Weiss nonchalantly handed her coat to Mister Trupp, revealing a neat glittering frock underneath a blue petticoat, while she crossed the antechamber into the main hall where a handful of guests in fine suits, silk dresses, and feather boas entertained themselves in the presence of Tsar Nicholas the Second and Tsaritsa Alexandra chatting with practiced smiles with what appeared to be an American businessman.
The former heiress hid her grimace drawn from the eerie resemblance some of these guests had with her father. Given another ten or twenty years, half the men here would look like him. It was like she had traveled back in time to her grandfather's galas.
"Are you alright?"
Weiss flashed Anya a small smile while she adjusted her tiara. "I'm fine. Where is Lyoshka?"
"Behaving."
The two ladies giggled then wove through the crowd until they found the tsesarevich pouting at Olga, probably for chastising him. From there, it was back to the practiced grace and polity.
"I've never heard of anyone named Schnee."
"Peculiar for your parents named you after Snow White."
"I never thought Germans had natural white hair."
Weiss internally sighed. It was back to the same kind of attention. At least she was still somewhat of a stranger so that made it easier.
"You don't happen to be acquainted with Sergeant Ionas Arkos, do you?"
"Are you that girl who kissed that Frenchman?"
"How brave of you to publicly display your affections to so many people!"
Weiss groaned inwardly. Damn war correspondents. She quietly withdrew to the buffet table while Anya distracted the socialites, some of whom were asking to confirm a rumor from the post office that Lady Schnee knew the famous war hero 'intimately.' Damn it, Charles!
"This is your second Christmas," remarked Doctor Botkin. "How are you finding it?"
"Warmer than the last."
The physician chuckled. "I suppose."
"Hard to believe it's nearly two years now since I first appeared," she mused. "I feel...reincarnated."
Weiss understood that this holiday was supposed to mean something. Something warm amid the cold. Yet even as the snow piled against the window sills and the laughter and banter echoed from within the walls of the mansion, the white-haired girl could barely feel the elation.
"I could say I feel the same way," Doctor Botkin replied. "Perhaps, from now on, things would be back to normal. Would you agree?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps this indeed my Christmas gift. A new home."
This was her life now. Just like back in Atlas. However, unlike before, this was more like a real home. With a family that actually cared. And a deposed emperor who treated her like one of his own children.
Lady Weiss Schnee looked into her glass of punch and huffed at her reflection. Merry Christmas, indeed.
ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: October 2, 2018
LAST EDITED: October 5, 2018
INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 3, 2018
NOTE: How are you guys finding the story so far?
NOTE (October 5, 2018): As requested, I'll be including translations for the foreign language phrases.
Bon travail!= Good work!
Joyeux Noël! = Merry Christmas!