Given from the Heart
Title: Given from the Heart || AO3 Link Fandom: Tales of Destiny Characters: Leon Magnus & Marian Fustel Rating: General Audiences
Written as a @talessecretsanta gift for @rieeemagne! I was so happy I got to write for Destiny this year. Happy holidays, I hope you like this <3
Summary: Christmas at the Gilchrist Manor is a very cold affair, and doesn't feel very much like Christmas at all. Marian tries to change that.
Fic is under readmore! Alternatively, you can click the link and read it on ao3.
As December rolled by, Marian realized that Christmas at the Gilchrist manor was a very cold affair.
Christmas is celebrated, but only in name. As the entire city was Darilsheild suited up for the holiday spirit with flashing lights and colourful tinsels, the Gilchrist manor appeared to do the same. The decorations were tasteful and carefully looked after, with a gigantic Christmas tree in the foyer that was meticulously decorated by the staff.
But that’s just the thing. Everything was done by the staff. Important as Hugo Gilchrist was, Marian hadn’t really expected him to get involved in any sort of tedious chores, but neither him nor young master Emilio had breathed a word or otherwise done anything to acknowledge the approaching holiday at all. It was as if all the decorations were only put up for the sake of appearances. There was no real holiday cheer.
The lack of reaction from Emilio was especially jarring. Christmas had always been a favoured holiday for children, with big Christmas dinners and presents from family members and, of course, a visit from Santa Claus to look forwards to.
And yet, with Emilio…
“Santa Claus?” there’s almost a little bit of a scoff in his voice, and Emilio only looks up from his book long enough to raise an eyebrow at her. “Don’t be silly. As if something like that can be real.”
“Eh? But…” she falters slightly. “Aren’t you excited at all, Emilio? Santa gives coal to bad children, but the good ones get presents, you know!”
“I already know that it’s a lie and a story, Marian,” Emilio responds, almost matter-of-factly. “You don’t need to keep pretending for me. Besides,” he flips the page, turning his attention back to his studies. “I don’t expect any gifts, least of all from an imaginary old man that flies through the sky on a sled.”
“Oh.” She looks down at the ground.
“In any case,” he continues, with an air of finality. “I’m not a child anymore.”
But you are, Marian wants to say. You’re still so young. You should be having fun and playing outside in the snow with the other children instead of doing your lessons.
He does none of that. She has never seen Emilio play with kids his age, and when he goes outside, he ignores the snow in favour of dutifully going through swordsmanship practice drills. Emilio’s only companion seems to be that sword he carries everywhere.
He’s a child that works too hard and was forced to grow up too quickly. Marian wishes she could do something for him.
Despite her efforts to coax him into taking a break, Emilio spends Christmas Eve hunched over his desk and pouring over the gigantic books left by his tutors. Marian makes him his favourite kind of tea with lots of milk and extra honey, then retreats into the kitchen with the other staff to cook dinner.
It doesn’t feel much like a Christmas dinner when Emilio is sitting alone in the dining hall at a table large enough to fit more than a dozen people. Hugo is out on a business trip. His absence is actually a relief, because Marian has the feeling that the atmosphere would feel even colder with the Gilchrist patriarch sitting at the head of the table.
Without him, Emilio seems a bit more talkative, and she’s granted the satisfaction of seeing his face split into a wide grin at the sight of all his favourite pastries and ice cream and flan, made with eggs from Lienea and sugar from Janos just the way he likes it.
“You flan is my favourite, Marian,” he smiles at her sweetly, a dollop of cream still smeared across his upper lip.
“I’m glad you like it.” She heaves a second helping onto his plate. “Is there anything else you would like to do? Tonight is a special night, after all.”
“Is it?” Emilio licks at the spoon, too distracted by the dessert to remember that it’s an act his etiquette teacher would surely scold him for. “I’ve never done anything special for this day. I’ve finished my lessons now, so I’m going to bed.”
“Right,” Marian nods. “The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner Santa can give you your present–”
She trails off when Emilio furrows his brows, giving her a look torn between amusement and immense exasperation. “Don’t humour me, Marian. I’m not that gullible. We never give presents here, anyways.”
And that’s the end of their conversation about Santa.
“Never?” Marian asks the head butler in a rushed whisper later that evening, after she’d seen Emilio to bed. “Has the young master never gotten a present?”
“Not on his birthday, and not on Christmas,” the head butler confirms, his tone carefully flat. “Master Hugo doesn’t encourage such frivolities.”
Marian stares at him, aghast. “They’re not frivolities! He is just eight years old, he should be receiving gifts from his family–”
“I hope,” the butler interrupts. “You’re not thinking of doing anything foolish. As staff, we should strive to keep a professional distance.”
He leaves without saying anything else. Marian clutches at the carefully-wrapped package in her hands, and bites her lip hard enough to hurt.
~*~*~*~*~*~
“What is this?”
Emilio stands in front of the Christmas tree, holding a wrapped box with both hands and staring at it like he was expecting it to grow legs and run away at a second’s notice.
“Why, it’s a present!” Marian enthuses with a beaming smile. She’s had to lead him right to the tree and make a show of drawing Emilio’s attention to the box, or he would’ve walked right past it – and even then, she had to all but push it into his hands, and he doesn’t seem to process that it’s really for him. “Look, Emilio, it’s addressed to you. Won’t you see what it is?”
The young boy squints at the label. “It says it’s from…Santa.”
“That’s right. Would you like to open it?” Marian says hopefully.
For a moment, it almost seems as if he wouldn’t accept it, and the look he gives her tells Marian that he’s seen through her paper-thin scheme already. Emilio stares at her, then back down, then, oddly enough, to the sword fastened at his hip for an entire minute – as if he’s having some sort of silent conversation – before his eyes soften.
“If it’s really for me, then...” He brings it to a table, and starts to carefully undo the wrapping. Emilio is entirely cautious as he does so, preserving as much of the paper as possible, and it takes him a while to finally lift the gift from the wrapping.
It’s a set of winter clothes – a cloak, hat, scarf and gloves, all clearly handmade, knitted together with blue and pink yarn. Marian peers at Emilio’s face, twisting her fingers together as she waited for his reaction.
“What do you think?” she can’t resist asking, when moments pass and Emilio still doesn’t say anything. It’s hard not to feel a little anxious about her own handiwork when Emilio’s clothes are always made by professionals, commissioned and tailored to him exactly. “I thou– I mean, Santa, must’ve thought you could use–”
There’s a flurry of movement, and her breath catches in her throat when Emilio turns and clasps her hands in his much smaller ones. The small boy is smiling tremulously, and his eyes look a little bit wet as he sniffles and swallows the lump in his throat.
“Thank you,” he says, and grasps at her fingers a little tighter. “Thank you, Marian.”
Slowly, she smiles, too. “Merry Christmas, Emilio.”
“…Merry Christmas, Marian.”
