It’s early enough that the sun hasn’t crept over the horizon yet when Kris exits his quarters, a box tucked under one arm and something like nerves simmering beneath his skin at the prospect of finally, finally delivering it to its intended recipient instead of having it continue to burn a hole amidst his belongings. He knows it hardly even begins to repay her for everything she’s done for him, everything she’s given him; the small collection of trinkets quietly gathered over the span of months could never compare to years of being so clearly cherished it almost hurts.
But just as she never seemed to settle for just one gift each time she came to wish him a happy birthday, neither could he for hers as the date drew nearer. Better to just bundle them all together and hope she likes them, he’d thought, and yet—
Kris squares his shoulders and gusts an exhale through his nose. No turning back now when he’s already standing in front of Katarina’s door, shifting his hold on the box so it rests snugly in both hands as he waits. He’ll give it to her when she emerges, wish her well, and then leave for the training grounds. Simple and straightforward.
“Good morning,” he starts easily enough, mouth curving upward at the corners. “This is for you. Happy birthday, Katarina.”
Inside are, perhaps startlingly so, items whose value appears to be almost strictly sentimental. Most prominent is a stuffed animal in the shape of a fox, easily taking up close to half of the box’s interior alone; soft to the touch and adorned with a scarf tied around its neck to match its new owner. A pair of drawstring pouches follow suit, the larger one filled with…board game pieces? Three horsemen and two infantry, to be precise, carved from wood and painted in familiar hues of blue, green, and red. He’d thought about making more, truth be told, before thinking better of it; certain in his belief that she would recognize the significance of just those five as though it was their little secret.
The smaller pouch is where the pattern seems to deviate. Hanging from the thin silver chain inside it is a pendant inlaid with a purple gemstone, clearly meant to be worn around the neck. That was the one he’d been most unsure about, having never really seen her wear jewelry before, but to withhold it any longer than he already has is surely a disservice to the knight who’d taken the time to craft it for his sake.
(And at the very bottom of the box, even smaller than the rest as to nearly be missed altogether? A single satchel of spirit dust.)
“…I figured I’d come by first thing, before we have to go about the day like usual. There’s a pastry shop in the monastery town we can visit later too—if you want to go, I mean. It’ll be my treat.”
The sky has only just begun to run its fingers through the sun's many paints when Katarina peeks her head through the door. There's only one person who would visit her this early in the morning, and the dawn frames him quite nicely. It's still a darkness more his fashion and many cool tones more his wont, but all of this much gentler and less impermeable than the worries nursed inside her heart. When had she started paying so much attention to color?
"Kris," she answers with a smile, small in form yet far in reach, gray eyes lit up like sunrise; his name always comes first. "Good morning."
Surprise arrives in the form of a box, pulled from its place beneath his arm and handed to her. Both hands reach out to take it, the scarred palm gliding over top of it, almost reverent in how it smooths the cover; she blinks many times in quiet awe before he calls her, as ever, back to her senses.
--later she will open the box with utmost care and marvel at its well of sentiment. And her first thought will be to wonder: has she read him wrong all these years? Every birthday she had striven to give him things most practical -- things that would warrant the space they occupied. What sentiment she herself slipped in was tiny, placed precisely, like a wedge beneath a door to stop it from shutting forever. Remember Altea, the liege that we love -- remember the places and people that love you back.
Perhaps this year she ought to take a different approach... the thought escapes her as she lifts the fox from its burrow, its scarf tied into a familiar bow. Is this... her? And it's so soft, too... The questions, the things it is that she isn't -- she holds it close and presses them into its fur, one arm devoted to hugging it to her chest even as she moves on to opening the rest.
Later, small wood carvings tumble out: horsemen and infantry, blue, green, and red. Of course she recognizes them -- how could she not? She loves them, worries about them, thinks about them more than they could ever know. Thus it is with gentle-hearted purpose that she lays them out upon her desk, two of the cavaliers placed in the back together (always together, despite clamor and chagrin); she is not certain of forgiveness nor does she dare to ask of it, so she leaves them at the least repulsive distance she can afford them.
Slightly closer (or caught in the middle, some might say), the green infantry sits as if always moving between them, less sure, but more hopeful. Closest of all are the red horseman and of course -- of course -- the blue infantry, too lenient with her by far. Yet for their generosity she knows better than to doubt them -- knows well enough to hold them close and cherish them, with everything she has.
All of them, of course, on the side of her non-dominant hand; she would be loath to knock them over, though the fox finds its new home on the opposite end.
Later she will open the satchel and gasp, cinching it shut again straight away, as if caution and startlement might somehow change its contents. A second, slower peek will prove to her that no, they do not. This single gift is more expensive (in gold, in effort paid for equivalent reward) than anything she owns. And she cinches it shut again, this time as if doing so might un-spend them. (It doesn't.) (But who else would it be for? Certainly not Kris -- a finer sword you'd never see, but she'd never seen so much as a snowflake or flame.)
It feels tremendous somehow. Not in its cost, but in the worth it attests to -- the coin, the effort, the blood and burns and scars, the heat of an old spell prickling under flame-warped skin -- and still, she is not broken junk to him. Not to Kris. Not ever.
Later, she will pour a beautiful necklace into her palm, unsure of when the tears threatening her eyes had finally spilled over, and blink more down her cheeks in wonder. Yet it is not their warmth that turns her face red; maybe it is the light that plays off of the gemstone, or that awkward sincerity she sees tucked away within.
Later she will wear it on her neck instead of a scarf too warm for summer, and silently blame the heat for the color of her cheeks. And her hand will return to it, again and again, fingertips pressed sidewise against her collar to spare it even the tenderest, most precious touch. (It would be a shame to get pastry crumbs on it, after all.)
Later, later, later, but for now, she hugs his gift close, her eyes already turned back toward Kris and the day beginning behind him.
"--yes? --yes!" She tucks her chin a bit at that, made shy of her own enthusiasm. "I mean... I'd like that. I want to go." I'd go anywhere with you.
"...But don't let me keep you." A laugh pressed against her knuckles, wrapped within a knowing smile. "Today's training is about to begin."
