Disclaimer: This would make a nice holiday present, I think. The ownership of DK... Hmm...
Warnings: Minor swearing, following up of basic plot idea from last year.
A/N: Many thanks to Jas for her random spouting of the palm-scratching mythology that gave me this particular idea. Not that she'll see this, of course, but she deserves to be thanked anyway. n-n; Thanks as well to that same random story that started this all off and that I still can't remember the title of. Whoops... As a random note, unlike Snow, this piece was mostly written in school and during class on little pieces of scrap paper that I then had to try to type up and link together. Annoying, but easier to do that way, really, under time constraints. This means, however, that I spent so much time on the 24th trying to tape up everything and get it to make some form of sense. I'm not sure how much I succeeded, as I now have a slight headache from staring at this screen for too long, and I can't tell what's happening in the story and what just seems like it's going down because it's been tossed together in my head too quickly. Grawr.
And a special thanks to FireyFlames, Misura, DragonessFei, Brianna, Charna, Bananaluvie-rc, Eikou, and Capella(:hug for first review:) for reviewing Snow, even with all its errors and shitze. e-e; You guys rock.
Extra points to whoever catches the nod to Book 4.
:n:
Golden lights illuminated evergreen branches hanging above archways. They glimmered in the gray dusk, casting a warm yellow glow over the frozen city. While the silver sheen of snow had not yet fallen on the bustle below, cold wind-bursts toyed with the light, whipping it up into a molten gilding and draping it around the doors and windows of the tightly sealed buildings.
The lights gave the city an air of faerie tale magic, of sun-cast jewels and polished bronze plating, and of lost golden coins rolling over the cobblestone streets.
There were white candles lighting the pathways winding through the city as well, though no mention was made of them. Perhaps no words were needed to explain such a spartan thing.
Or perhaps they were simply ignored.
:n:
Three young woman strolled easily down the winding streets, oblivious to the bustling crowds that were starting to form about them. It was not quite dark yet, although the sun had already set on this shortest of days. The sky was still a warm gray, glazed with faint caramel at its tips.
Their laughter slid above the lower chatter and friendly shouts that rang throughout the capital of Dragoon. It sounded warm, although it frosted as it graced the wind.
They passed by houses with lanterns decorating normally dull windows, their gloved hands pointing out festive sights to each other as they strolled languidly onwards.
They tarried to watch a group of schoolchildren swapping brightly wrapped boxes; evergreen branches draped over a tall archway; their own breath upon the chill air.
But when they finally stopped, it was before a nondescript wooden door.
A gilded sign above it was draped with strings of red beads and fastened securely to the slanting roof, proclaiming the name "Lemure's" to the busy street, although most of the passerby knew the building well.
Girlish chatter rose and dissolved as the three looked up at it, taking in the name as if for the first time.
For two of them it was, although the third was eager to announce that if one was to spend Midwinter anywhere, then this was certainly the place.
:n:
"Here it is!" The young woman called out, tugging her off-white coat tighter about her lithe frame. "I could find this place in my sleep," she continued with a bragging laugh, shaking her head and sending her brown ponytail flying.
"Looks nice, Kitchel," another of the three smiled uncertainly, wavy cinnamon hair whipping into her gray eyes as the wind kicked up again.
"Let's get inside. It's cold out here."
Kitchel pushed open the door, listening with a reminiscing leap of her heart to the small bells tied to the handle. She grinned playfully at the youngest girl: her small form shivered with the cold but her wide brown eyes shone excitedly as she in turn looked expectantly up at her friend.
"You okay, Pyore?" Kitchel teased as they entered the sudden warmth of the bar, the false amber light from the multitude of lamps washing soothingly over them and giving a pleasant nudge to their numbed faces.
The small girl nodded buoyantly, tugging at the thief's hand.
"Come on, Kitchel! Let's get good seats before they're all taken."
Laughing lightly, Kitchel took hold of the long green sleeve of Delte's jacket, running her fingers over its rose trim and pulling the third girl towards a booth in the back of the bar.
"It's warmer back here," she explained as she slid onto the wooden bench, watching as the other two seated themselves across from her. "And there's a window! We'll be able to watch the party without getting trampled by it."
Kitchel laughed again, clearly at ease in her surroundings, and slid out of her jacket, laying it on the seat next to her.
"Master's probably busy getting things together still," she explained, nodding towards the currently-empty bar counter, "but once he comes out, I'll call him over. I've got credit here, ya know," the young woman winked, "so drinks are on me."
She paused, thinking briefly over that statement.
"Well, Delte, your drinks are on me. How old are you, anyway, Pyore?"
The younger girl put on a mock-offended expression, furrowing her slender brows and glaring harshly across the table. She broke character, giggling suddenly at the absurdity of the situation, one made worse by the way her thick white coat almost completely absorbed her body and made her look like a small ruffled bird.
"I'm fifteen," she asserted cheerfully, undoing the metal snaps down the front of her jacket, then added in hopefully, "so you could get me something anyway."
Kitchel laughed again as Delte looked vaguely shocked at the innocent suggestion, shaking her head. "I could try, but he wouldn't let you have it. I'll buy you something else, though. He serves a terrific cider."
If she was of poorer temperament, Pyore would have looked cross, but she merely shrugged her mild disappointment off with her coat, folding the thick material neatly in her lap.
"It's nice to get out of the castle," Kitchel signed contentedly, stretching her slender legs out under the table and glancing at the door as a slow stream of patrons began to enter the bar. "It gets so stuffy in there. Too many walls."
Delte nodded, undoing her jacket as well but not removing it.
"I know what you mean, Kitchel. I like it there, though."
"Oh, so do I," she corrected herself hastily, holding up her hands to display her earnestness. "But I practically grew up out here. It was nice." She smiled, looking briefly out the window. "It was different."
"What about you, Pyore?" Delte asked, bringing her into their conversation, "how do you feel about the castle?"
"I like it," she beamed, almost rocking forward in her seat, "it's big. And the gardens are really nice," she paused. "They're big, too."
"That's true," the thief nodded with a playful grin. "I can't deny that."
She sat up straighter suddenly, facing the bar and motioning for someone to join them. Delte looked over, but not before noticing that the sun had finally abandoned all attempts at coloring the sky. The only lights were those man-made, and the building now seemed awash in a sea of miniature floating fires, as she recalled the lamps outside.
"This is Master. He's the bartender of this fine establishment."
She was shaken from her musings by the arrival of a middle-aged man, his short hair white, and the narrow lines on his face etched from both good humor and more serious confrontations.
But that seemed ages ago, Delte noticed as he confirmed Kitchel's introduction. The fighting had all but disappeared, and they were celebrating a solstice unmarred by battles or intrigue.
"Nice to meet you young ladies," the bartender nodded with a smile to Delte and Pyore. "It's too bad you come out here so rarely, Miss Fortuneteller. I've had several clients recently inquire about knowledge of their futures beyond what my sources could give them."
Delte started, eyes widening as Kitchel laughed and Pyore clasped her hands together in delight.
"What would you three like to drink tonight?" He continued, pulling out a pad of paper and worn pen from the pocket of his short apron.
"Two glasses of white Hermosa wine, you pick the specifics," Kitchel replied immediately, "and a mug of cider. You want cinnamon?"
Pyore nodded eagerly and the bartender added in the note.
"Give me a minute and I'll be back with that. There's a nice '64 you should try." He walked away to Delte's softly exhaled gasp.
"...How did he know what I do?"
"Master's a bartender," her friend grinned broadly, "so he knows everything. He's the same as ever."
Kitchel shook her head, her hair flashing briefly as it shivered in the firelight.
"So," she continued their discussion, "what else do you like about the castle, Pyore? Wait, what do you do?" Kitchel blinked, gazing curiously at the black-haired girl. "Do they actually make you work?"
Pyore giggled, pulling off her cream gloves and explained, "I help Lady Cernozura sometimes, but they don't make me. It's nice to help people out, though." She beamed winningly, "and when I'm done with that, I visit my boyfriend!"
She seemed oblivious to the way the two older girls choked on their words. Delte sat up straight, eyes wide and her free hand clamped over her mouth, while Kitchel ducked almost completely beneath the table, coughing loudly and unable to resurface for several minutes.
"We walk in the gardens and pick flowers... Or go up to the castle rampant and look out over the grounds... Or sometimes he'll take me to the lake and we'll sit and talk about ourselves and watch the clouds..."
Delte was amused to note around her shock that Pyore's eyes were becoming glossier with every word uttered, and her small hands were intertwined and held tightly together in front of her chest, as if her words held something sacred.
Kitchel straightened up, wrenching her words out between sporadic giggles.
"I never would have guessed you had a boyfriend! I knew you did, Delte," she said as the fortuneteller turned a faded rose at the brief mention, "but not you! Jeeze, looks like I'm the odd one out," Kitchel joked, a cheerful smile still lighting up her face at Pyore's news.
"Here you are. I'm placing this on your tab, Kitchel?"
"Yeah, thanks." The thief leaned forward at the approach of the bartender, letting her friends do the same.
Master leaned over the three young women, placing down two glasses and a mug, each filled with a warm golden substance, although one also held a fine layer of ground cinnamon which spun lazily on its surface.
"Try this. It isn't very strong, but it's the last of the batch," Master commented. "The last time I served this, you had hair down your back," he said to Kitchel, smiling at the memory of a smaller version of the young woman before him.
Delte took a curious sip of the liquid, trying unsuccessfully to shake off the feeling that it was rude to do so while the barkeep was still making conversation.
It was carbonated, she noticed with slight surprise, and tasted vaguely of honey or, perhaps, sunlight through the branches.
"I remember this," Kitchel absentmindedly nodded, scratching her palm as she waited for the return of her drink. "You let some of us buy it one year. It's good."
Master watched not her face as she spoke, but the movement of her hand, lips twitching up into a barely noticeable smile as he abruptly changed the topic.
"Money's coming your way. You're a thief. And," his eyes shone teasingly, "a fool wants to kiss you."
Kitchel blinked at him, caught off guard for the second time that night.
"What?"
The bartender grinned.
"I'm not a fortuneteller like your friend, but I still know the tales. Your palm itches. That's what it means."
She took the tall glass from him and laughed, running a slender finger across the smoothly joined angles of its sides before raising it in mock toast.
"Thanks, but no thanks. I think I'll just stick with the first two," she winked, "No time for love if you're a thief."
"I don't know," he countered jokingly, crossing his arms. "What about the Thief of Hearts?"
Kitchel shook her head, jumping easily to the argument as she placed her mug back down on the rough wooden table and let the condensing water draw streaks down its yellowing polish.
"You've gotten it confused. The Thief of Hearts steals love; he doesn't give any in return."
A patron at the bar called loudly for a refill, and Master turned away, starting to walk back towards his other customers, taking the sudden end to his impromptu debate in stride.
"To return it would make him a shoddy thief, wouldn't it?"
Kitchel shook her head as the older man called over his shoulder, a wry smile tugging at her face.
She lifted her newly filled glass to her mouth, taking a longer drink, then paused and looked back at her slightly bemused friends.
"He's the same as ever. So, what were we saying?"
"Love," Delte smiled, taking a sip of her drink, "the bartender almost continued our conversation for us."
"Master's like that," Kitchel grinned, leaning comfortably on the table. Her warm jade eyes shone with flecks of amber in the torchlight that surrounded them and the Elven Fortuneteller was struck for a moment by their clarity.
They reminded her of leaves just beginning to accept the frosting weather, of a last hold on fall.
"Pyore," the thief continued, "who is it? Some Dragon Fighter? They're cute, but I wouldn't want to go out with one." She took another drink, enjoying the pleasant burn as it slid through her veins. "Ringleys says I'm too bossy for them, anyway."
Pyore giggled at that, looking up with a start as raucous male laughter suddenly burst over the already-loud exuberance in the bar.
"Boys," Kitchel rolled her eyes, immediately reaching over and yanking Pyore back from where the younger girl was leaning out of their secluded booth for a better glimpse of the mirth.
"They can be loud," Delte admitted, hiding her amusement behind her hand. She watched as Pyore was pushed back against her seat, a light pout upon her normally cherubic face. "But they have an excuse. It is Midwinter."
"Some Midwinter," Kitchel said bluntly. "It hasn't even stated snowing yet."
"It's not that late," Delte countered with a soft shake of her head, loose curls dancing. "There have been later first snows than this."
"Not by much," she returned quickly. "Normally it'd have started by at least a week ago."
"It must be building up for a storm," Delte shivered at the thought, absentmindedly rubbing her forearm under its deeply green sleeve.
"Or maybe we'll skip it entirely!" Kitchel's face brightened, "have a sunny winter. That would be nice."
Pyore watched the two young women, then was startled by the sudden tinge of sadness to the words as Delte replied to the other's comment.
"Would you really like that?" She shook her head, a soft smile fastened to her lips as she watched Kitchel searchingly. "I wouldn't. It wouldn't be the same."
"The same," Kitchel laughed at the phrase. "That doesn't matter. Who wants to be the same, anyway?"
Delte's eyes widened slightly at this statement, a startled recognition dawning on her, but she let the comment slide with a shrug of her ivy-clad shoulders.
"...So who is it?" Kitchel turned her attention back to Pyore, although both of her friends noticed her momentary pause and search for a safer topic.
As Pyore began to answer in her natural exuberance, Delte watched the thief over the edge of her glass. Maybe, she speculated, it was merely the light reflecting off of the soft amber drink, but Kitchel seemed awash in an orange glow. It highlighted her figure, illuminating the soft measures of her face. But where it was the most apparent, Delte thought to herself, was where it shone off her playful eyes.
It was peculiar.
The lighting was reminiscent of the past autumn sun as it rode the crest between summer and the sudden drop of winter. Those fluctuating temperatures created turbulence, keeping the light buoyant, and Delte wondered briefly how closely she was hitting with this strange spur-of-the-moment-and-alcohal metaphor.
Delte slowly downed the rest of her glass. It wasn't half bad, she thought to herself as it licked heady flames up her throat. She'd had stronger in the past, but this one had a pleasant and almost playful feel to it.
Her musings were cut short by a tug on her sleeve. She glanced down into Pyore's wide eyes, finding herself pulled back into the lighthearted chatter.
"...Chantel. He said he knew of a nice place there, with a wishing fountain and--"
"Oh, the main square? I don't think that would count as a 'nice place'. It's just the center of the town." She shook her head, but gave a light smile, brushing off the uncomfortable edge that tried to draw her vision back across her drink.
It was merely the flare of lights.
:n:
The sky looked flat. The thick cloudcover had so obscured its face that no stars were visible and where the gray mass before acted as a canvas for shards of rose and lilac, there was no more than a blank slate. It was impermeable, endless, vast and utterly void of variation. At least, that's how it looked to the human as she glanced out the window by her seat, green eyes holding an almost tired gaze to the heavens.
"Look at them," her words slid out from between quirked lips as she drew her sight from the sky to the crowded street, "there's so many of them. Over there," she pointed, "and another pair by the store across the road. There, too," Kitchel continued, giggling lightly at her game as she pulled Delte's attention from one couple to the next, all of them bundled against the weather and leaning into each other, sedated by the holiday spirit.
"Oh, and going around the corner there. Hey, they're walking right past us!"
The fortuneteller watched as her friend waved enthusiastically to the young couple then repeated the process of spying out pairs of people again, finally gathering the courage to break into her fluid stream of words.
"Do you wish you were one of them?"
"...No," Kitchel spoke clearly, aware only one of her friends would be able to hear her. By now Pyore was nearly asleep; her small form swayed dangerously, her eyes flickering closed. While she responded with ease, her eyes darted briefly out into the throbbing crowd of people, although Delte wouldn't have been able to tell what she was looking for even if she had noticed the gesture.
"They're so similar, anyway."
"What are you talking about?" The quickly responding voice held passion: frustration, concern, a shiver of fear.
Kitchel raised a a slender eyebrow at the reaction she received, lips twitching into a near smirk.
"What do you mean?"
Delte took a deep breath, shaking her head slowly as she watched the dented surface of the table. "I can see how you could feel that way... But how could you want to?" She looked back up. "There's a difference between wanting to be different and being afraid to be the same."
The thief bristled slightly at that, her eyes beginning to narrow. "I'm not afraid."
"Perhaps," Delte conceded, watching the flicker of lights glint off the walls, "but you aren't comfortable with the idea, either."
"Of course not!" Kitchel scoffed, torn between snapping the words out in her friend's face and letting them slide off her smile with an innocent laugh. "And you said you understood. Who wants to be the same?"
The elf shook her head once more, brows furrowed together.
"Don't you see? It's not about that. You're saying one thing..." her voice trailed off, eyes once more watching as the walls mirrored fire.
Pyore followed her gaze, curling her legs sleepily under her small form.
"Candles," she murmured, suddenly inching forward into the heated conversation.
"What, Pyore?" Kitchel turned to her a little too eagerly, all too obviously snatching at the change of topic.
"They're dancing on the walls." The girl stated, her vision still following their glimmer.
Kitchel laughed, opening her mouth to ask if she was really that tired, when Pyore continued, still speaking dreamily.
"They were dancing on the streets, too."
The female thief blinked, drawing back. "Really? I don't remember seeing them."
"I do," Delte spoke up. "I didn't notice them much at the time, but I remember they were there. Tall white ones."
She paused, then tentatively pursued their previous conversation, searching for some way to tie the two together.
"Kitchel, it isn't always bad to be the same."
"This again?" Her voice rose slightly, the words rougher. "I told you, it's not a big deal to me."
"Then why keep bringing it up?" Delte asked, leaning on the table. "You keep mentioning the idea. Of course it matters to you!"
"I do not," a slight flush rose to her face, although she was far from embarrassed by her crescendo. "I don't want to be a clone, or something, but you're reading far too much into this!"
"What are you so afraid of?" Delte pushed stubbornly.
"I'm not," she responded, trying to restrain the frustrated tensing to her words and wondering fleetingly exactly how much her friend had to drink. "Listen to me--"
"Similarities can be good; the candles--"
"I don't give a damn," the piercing phrase slammed the previously festive air around them and Kitchel caught herself, lowering her voice as the chatter surrounding them faltered. "About the candles," she whispered harshly, feeling an ignored twinge of shame as she remembered Pyore's presence. "They have nothing to do with this. I'm not afraid of the candles or similarities," her voice wavered, inching louder, "or of all this stupid change--"
Green eyes widened in shock, the angry flush to her face vanishing under a layer of bright pink, her hand flying up to her mouth.
She was surprised when the elf made no comment, merely staring as her heart tried to crash through her chest.
The bar around them seemed unusually quiet, still startled by her outburst.
"...Oh." Delte glanced away, taking a deep drink from her glass, then turned her face to look out the window. "...I see."
"Wait," the smooth drink in her hand triggered a recent memory. "Kitchel, the bartender, what did he mean--"
"Drop it."
Her voice was serious, her normally friendly face tilted away to face back out at the sky, purposefully avoiding direct contact with any of the others in the bar.
As the people around them began to reengage in personal conversations, letting the lull of chatter mask out any talk from their booth, Kitchel leaned closer to the glass separating her from the street outside. It was several minutes before she spoke, her light voice breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over the trio.
"...They never had them before."
"Couples?" Delte asked tentatively as Pyore yawned, settling herself more comfortably against the cushioned backrest.
"No, the candles." She was still peering out into the gloom, letting her breath cloud on the window. "I came down here every year. I practically lived here for a while. They never had them before. They must've just been set up."
Cupping her chin in her hand, she let her eyes soften. "It's so weird, ya know? It's Solstice, but it just doesn't feel like it. I mean, it was never this crowded in the past. And the people were different." Kitchel caught herself at that, sitting up straight with a nervous start. "I don't mean better, or anything! I'm really glad you two came out with me tonight! I just meant that--"
"It was different," Delte finished with a nod. "Of course it was. That was several years ago, Kitchel. Things have changed since then."
"Yeah, I know that," she said, her eyes flickering over Pyore's form as the girl slumped forward to lean against the fortuneteller, still sound asleep. "And not all the changes were bad. I know you guys now," she grinned teasingly. "And I've got a better job. More money. Besides, I still know a lot of people from the street."
This time Delte did catch her glance towards the bar. She turned to look as well, startled to notice that the previously loud scene over there had died down a bit. Some of the patrons had left, and not many new ones had taken their place.
In fact, she blinked, she was able to see the familiar form of one of the members of the Dragon Clan facing away from them through the thinning throng.
Delte turned back only to meet Kitchel's steady gaze, realizing that of all of them the other would be the most readily able to track her line of vision. The elf gulped as she recognized that she knew who she had seen and what assumptions she'd made.
She was shocked, therefore, to receive not an annoyed glare or a careless shrug, but to see her friend train her gaze back out the window, a faint blush gracing her cheeks.
Delte immediately opened her mouth to question, but let the words die on her tongue.
She didn't need her cards to understand what had happened.
"Oh," she sighed again, "Kitchel, I'm sorry about tonight."
The thief smiled, shaking her head and carefully watching the flicker of candles just barely visible from where she was seated. "No, it's okay." She turned back to face Delte, waving her free hand to brush off the comment.
"I do that sorta thing all the time."
Delte smiled back, nodding her head slightly in gratitude.
"In that case, forgive me, but..." she dropped her voice as Pyore stirred momentarily. "Why don't you talk to Thatz?"
Her words seemed to echo upon the dimmed background conversation, drawing a seal around the small booth.
Delte was the only one who appeared capable to move in the miniature warp of captured time it created, although her voice did sound languid on the air.
"I realize I'm being forward, but, since you like him," a slow shading of red crept back up her friend's cheekbones as the thought was spoken aloud, "I think you should talk to him. Not necessarily ask him if he feels the same, but just... Talk," she finished, dipping her face embarrassedly at the poor motivational speech she had given.
"I don't expect you to do anything about it now, but--"
Kitchel nodded, the small jerk of her head shattering the spell cast about them, and spoke far more hesitantly than either of her friends were accustomed to hearing.
"...Thanks."
Pyore's eyes fluttered open and she sat upright with a wide yawn.
"What happened...? Are we late?" Her tired eyes widened briefly at the thought of getting reprimanded for staying out all night.
Delte glanced down at the younger girl, shaking her head slightly.
"Nothing happened." She paused, then spoke to both of the humans: lovestruck girl and candlestruck thief alike. "It'll be fine."
Pyore never did understand the brief exchange of words that followed, although it was one she frequently remembered, if only as a hazy dream.
"Fine," Kitchel laughed suddenly, the sound crystal over its lower surroundings. "Sure. Just unnerving. You're as bad as Master, you know? And he's a bartender."
Delte smiled softly, accepting the compliment and changing the subject. "You know, they do only light the candles as an interlude for the sun."
"You've got a point," the thief said, letting her hand drop to the table.
"And today, I think most of us will watch it rise."
"Yeah," Kitchel laughed the word again, "but I'll do it differently."
Delte placed her fist over her mouth, trying to hold back the giggle threatening to flow over with this sudden ease of tension.
"Yes, I think you will."
:n:
Predawn found the three hastily pulling on their coats, shivering by the entrance to the bar in the ragged wind.
Most of the other people had already left, save for a sleeping drunk, a cluster of very vocally imbibed teenagers, and a young man slouched at the bar counter.
The trio had paused as they walked past the latter, although only two knew why. So it came as a dully-noted shock to Pyore and not much of a surprise to Delte when Kitchel paused at the door of Lemure's, glancing momentarily back into the building.
"You two go on without me. I want to," she gave an almost hidden smile, tucking a rouge strand of autumn hair behind her ear and lying easily, "talk to Master for a minute. I'll catch you up later. I can find my way back."
Delte sent her a quizzical look and opened her mouth to protest but was cut off by a purposefully casual laugh.
"Come on. I won't get lost. You know, I'll probably even beat you two back."
The Elven fortuneteller conceded the point, taking in Pyore's tottering form and slipped her white gloved hand around the other girl's as the black-haired human attempted to stifle a tired yawn.
"I suppose you're right. Pyore," she nudged her to turn around and snuck a last brief glance over her shoulder at Kitchel.
"Will you meet me for lunch later today? I'd like to know for sure that you got back safely." Her eyes were soft and fleeting smile adorned her lips, brushed rouge with the chill. Delte paused, then added in in an almost reassuring manner, "be sure to tell me... Be sure to tell me what he says."
"What he says," Kitchel repeated the words back to herself, half turning up her lips into a barely apprehensive smile. Her caught laughter smoked before her on the predawn air.
The streets were still dark save for the captured flicker of the candlelight, tethered and lighting the shadowed pathways.
Kitchel glanced up at the cloud covered heavens, waving vaguely as her two friends started slowly off, their bundled figures soon melting into the murky gray.
"No snow yet? Maybe it'll start today."
Green eyes still searching out the sky, Kitchel shook her head, shivering as she felt an unexpected and unforeseen whisper: a prick of wonder and fear.
She felt tempted to laugh it off; to run after the other two; to leave by herself now and let the slight burning of her face fade as the remnants of alcohol left her system.
She did let her lips part in a silent cry of humor at that.
She hadn't had that much to drink.
The dark deep of the shadows was lengthening, edged in by tarnished silver.
Then Kitchel turned around, stepping lightly into the gilt of the fire-warmed building.
Her sight alighted upon the well-known figure of a young man standing in front of the bar counter, brown hair falling messily into his face. His startled green eyes met her own, and she felt her expression inexplicably deepen into a calm acknowledgment instead of her traditional teasing grin.
She was unaware of how her eyes shone.
"'Morning," Kitchel mouthed with her slight smile, though whether he understood her quiet murmur she was unable to tell. He did step forward, however, walking almost uncertainly towards her, his steps shaky and prayer-slow.
Her cheek was brushed by something cold: a snowflake.
And Kitchel found herself standing in the first winter's snow, suddenly close enough to crush her lips to his.
Thatz swallowed dryly and she gave an unsteady nod of agreement.
"Hey."
:n:
And the candles flickered, illuminating the streets as the sun slowly rose.
:n:
This was started: Friday, May 20, at 7:27 PM
This was finished: Thursday, December 29, at 10:16 AM(Because I realized I had totally damned two of the scenes to hell thanks to my disjointed notes. For the love of... :rolls eyes:)
Please review.
Merry-- Oh, whatever. Have a great holiday season, everybody.