She Dreams of Winter [Closed, One-shot, OOC Replies Welcome]

[Michaux]

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She dreams of Winter.

 

The highlands of Coerthas are painted over in shades of gray and white. The wind pulls at her skirts and ruffles the strands of her long brunette wig. Her signature blue hair is tucked and pinned safely out of sight. A clever application of cosmetics has altered the appearance of her features. She is not Solenne Lagarde, not on this perilous night. She is Lady Winter, and in that guise she leads her flock of Ishgardian refugees south, toward safety and a new life.

 

A little ahead is Lord Winter, better known to her as Richaud Debonet, her dearest friend. It is dangerous for him, the son of a condemned heretic, to venture so close to the homeland that killed his father. He does it for love, while she does it for the thrill. She knows he’s far more righteous than she’ll ever be, but he chose her to be his comrade, his confidante, his co-conspirator, and she’ll always be grateful for that.

 

He turns back to smile at her, his breaths coming out in little puffs of white. “All right, Blue?” he asks. He never calls her Lady Winter - that’s the refugees’ name for her. To him, she has always been Blue.

 

“Just enjoying this beautiful night,” she replies cheerfully. And she is enjoying it, despite the danger. No, because of it.

 

Richaud laughs, and the rich, joyous sound of it brings a few smiles to the weary faces of the refugees. He’s always laughing, always smiling, always happy in spite of all the hardships he’s suffered. He is the best man she has ever known and ever expects to know, and she gets to call him her friend. She doesn’t know how she got so lucky.

 

~

 

Solenne awakens to darkness. She is wrapped in blankets, cozily tucked away in a warm bed in a little inn room. This isn’t the snowy highlands of Coerthas. This is Ul'dah, and everything is different now. There are no more treks across wintery landscapes, no more daring rescues of falsely accused heretics. No more Lady Winter. And worst of all, no more Richaud.

 

The image of his smiling face haunts her. It is utterly vivid, more real to her than anything in this shadowy room. She remembers long nights sitting upon the rooftop of her family home in Gridania, sharing secrets and aspirations. She recalls what it felt like to know she could count on someone, no matter what. Richaud had always been there for her; and she took it for granted that he always would be. Then she lost him.

 

Her fingers curl in the bed sheets. She hides her face against the pillow while something tears inside her chest. It can’t be her heart, for that is made of solid ice. Whatever it is, it’s probably unimportant, and the pain will soon subside.

 

Winter is in her heart and soul. She will not cry for him.