Another night, strikingly cold, colder than they have yet to experience this winter, falls deeper as the hour grows later, biting st every edge of Zapolyarny Palace. Yana had lit one of the hearths before Tartaglia was able to answer her call, and now she walks with him from the entrance of the throne room towards the firelight, hand curled around his forearm, knowing he must slow his stride so as not to outpace her leisurely steps.
"Most other nations have begun their celebrations," she says with a soft smile, eyes glancing up to gaze at his profile. Snezhnaya dornet begun their own celebrations for a few more weeks yet, but she's not against a moment with her Eleventh before that time - even if she knows he would rather be with another on this evening. Most evenings, perhaps. "I have something for you, so I hope you will indulge me a bit of your time before you leave again. I will not keep you long."
As they take seats beside the fire, she recalls a few years prior, when they sat in these same seats while she gifted him the earring that still adorns his ear now.
"Schastlivogo Rozhdestva. A little early, yes, but I have a job that will keep you busy in the coming weeks, and I hope the holiday will be spent with your family." He may only have a day or two of free time at that point, and she knows how important his family is to him, so she will not keep him from them. She picks up a box from the small table between the chairs and the fire, and hands it to him. Inside, nestled within white tissue paper, is a new red scarf with the barest hint of silver woven into the threads that may just resemble flecks of snow when catching the light. This scarf is thicker than his usual one, not meant to replace it but to be used when it is especially cold, perhaps on this night as he leaves.
The chill of Her touch seeps through his coat and thick leather gloves where She tucks her arm through his, but the temperature She maintains at the moment is not so cold as to be terribly uncomfortable — not for a Snezhnayan-born, at least, and not for any like him who have spent extended time in Her presence.
Her heels click with each step, a feathering rime crackling out over rug and stone even as the two of them approach the radiating warmth of the hearth fire. Its heat does nothing to diminish the icy aura of the Archon by his side, though he himself appreciates both the comfort of the hearth as well as the delicate touch of Her hand. He finds the cushions of his chair, too, pleasantly warm when he relaxes down against it after keeping his arm steady for Her Majesty as She takes her own seat across from him first.
“Shchaslyvoho Rizdva,” he replies, dark eyes crinkling alongside his smile as he easily falls back into the dialect and accent of his home region, so often set aside by necessity when he’s in the capital city. “I’ve heard that Sumeru and Natlan celebrate the solstice in particular, and that Mondstadt keeps the midwinter celebrations going for… well, as long as they can. To hear the tale of it told, it sounds as if they retained their traditions from times before the Archons, back when Mondstadt froze nearly as cold as we do.”
Tradition in Snezhnaya tells that the Tsaritsa ascended to her throne on the coldest day of the year, not the longest. Either time is a prime excuse to both bond with family, he thinks, huddled together against the cold and dark, or to celebrate as vigorously as possible for much the same reason.
“You may keep me for as long as You wish,” he says with a touch of both mischief and affection in his face and the warmth of his voice. “I come late and stay late when it comes to family gatherings, and so must make what excuses I can to linger elsewhere for a while. I would much rather spend this time with Your Majesty than list about aimlessly.”
His own gift for Her is not ready yet, and he feels a twinge of guilt at not having it ready at hand. A silly sentiment, of course, and he knows this, guesses that She gifts him before the holiday so as not to infringe upon time with his family. Ajax smothers that immediate contrition of his in order to truly, properly appreciate the gift She presents to him.
“Oh,” he breathes as the warmth and exquisite softness of the scarf reveals itself from the first touch of his fingertips, and then as it settles against the back of his neck, gentle as a newborn snowfall and yet warm as Snezhnaya’s summer sun.
Blood-on-snow, home and heartbeat, are the associations that lie against him with the downy comfort of safety amidst winter’s might. Leave it to Her Majesty to understand, to present him a gift both practical and luxurious. Hints of silver gleam in the dancing firelight as he thumbs across the fabric, appreciating the weave, the warmth, and the thoughtfulness for a long moment before slinging it overtop of the one he now wears. The bulk infringes on the wolf-fur of his collar, but oh, he is warm.
And once again, his favorite color. She remembers.
“A job?” He notes what She said belatedly, his words partly smothered by his enfolding layers of scarves. Tartaglia hooks a finger into the high-piled cowl of red fabric and yanks it down enough that he can be understood clearly. Perhaps I’ll see about going home early— But no, Sashko and Tetyanka and Tarasik will still be there, along with their families…
“Rest assured, I will spend all the time I can with them.” Every second he can manage. He’ll count every moment a blessing. “But that is for the upcoming days.”
To lift her hand and kiss it is audaciousness beyond belief for any normal person, much less any citizen of Snezhnaya, but since he was fourteen, unbridled audaciousness has been a norm for the man now named Tartaglia. His breath rimes on his lips as he lifts away from Her skin.
“I would accompany you for a while, if you wish it.”
