The snow was falling slowly, with the lazy resignation of something in no hurry to get anywhere. They were large, wet flakes that melted on contact with Magnolia's grubby ground, as if the sky had finally accepted the fact that no one in this city was going to take winter seriously as long as there was a guild that blew up its own facade every holiday as a tradition. Christmas. Ah, the glorious season when human stupidity is coated in flashing lights and annoying carols.
The streets were filled with that noisy, sticky end-of-year magic: enchanted lights danced over the rooftops with an almost aggressive cheerfulness, children ran about with scarves bigger than they were, looking like small, colourful strangulation attempts, and the smell of gingerbread invaded my nostrils like a divine punishment for my having been too kind this year. It was a full sensory assault. I preferred the honest smell of the sewers in Raven's End. At least that didn't come with sleigh bells.
I walked with my hands in the pockets of my long coat, the hood pulled over my head and my lupine ears partially hidden, not out of shame, far from it, but because "Christmassy ears" was exactly the sort of nickname Natsu's underdeveloped brain would conjure up, and I was still on emotional probation after not having drowned him during the trip back from Tenrou. Moderation, at times, is a heavy burden.
In one gloved hand, I held a folded list, my handwriting a semi-chaotic mess of reluctant intentions.
Christmas Present List – 'It's Not Affection, It's Strategic Logistics for Alliance Maintenance' version
✅ Lisanna: Enchanted cherry blossom necklace. (Easy. The girl is charmed by a bit of glittery dust. Low effort, high reward in cute smiles.)
✅ Levy: Self-recharging rune notebook. (Useful. Quiet. The perfect gift.)
✅ Cana: A tankard of ale that never gets warm. (A practical gift to keep her one personality trait functional.)
✅ Bisca: Enchanted shooting gloves with enhanced grip. (Smell of new leather, because style matters even when you're shooting at things.)
✅ Mirajane: Handmade hair ornament with a sliver of moon crystal. (Required 37 sighs of frustration, two cuts to the finger, and an alarming amount of patience I didn't think I possessed. She'll love it. The she-devil.)
⬜ Erza: Music box (in progress... complicated, irritating, and expensive.)
I sighed, the warm vapour of my breath forming a small cloud in front of me. "Just the scarlet hell in the form of a stubborn knight left," I muttered, staring at the last line with all the joy of someone facing an overdue tax bill.
[Data analysis confirmed. Of the presents listed, those demanding the greatest cognitive and emotional effort were intended for Unit Mirajane and Unit Erza,] Eos commented in my mind, her voice as subtle as a tax audit. [Both required attention, manual skills, and a consideration of personal preferences that, statistically, you would avoid. Conclusion: your indifference protocols are failing. You're going soft.]
"I'm getting a headache from getting involved in these ridiculous social conventions, Eos. It's all a matter of... diplomacy. So they don't annoy me next year."
[Correction: you are exhibiting clinical signs of prolonged affection. Risk of developing a 'warm heart': 87%. Risk of you admitting this out loud? Statistically nil.]
I rolled my eyes so hard I felt a crack in my neck. "At least I made Mira's with my own hands. Even if it did make me feel like a 600-year-old woman carving trinkets in a dark cellar, lamenting my lost youth."
[Your carving technique, however, was admirable. Result: an accessory that accurately reflects the balance between Unit Mirajane's aggressive facade and her surprisingly gentle emotional core. Translation: she will probably cry when she realises the symbolism and hug you. Prepare your anti-affection defences.]
"Brilliant. More tears for my already extensive account of other people's traumas. Wonderful." I took a firmer step in the snow, which was now beginning to pile up, muffling the sounds of the city. "Now... the infernal redhead's present. That one was a right pain."
[Mission summary "Music Box for a Temperamental Titania": to obtain the object, it was necessary to locate a reclusive artisan specialising in high-precision magi-mechanical engineering. The process involved three visits to alleyways that smelt of regret and boiled cabbage, an illicit negotiation under an abandoned bathhouse (frequented by goblins, apparently), the use of a ridiculous password, "The gnome howls at the cheese moon", and a payment in jewels, counterfeit fairy-wing dust, and a bottle of magical cannobean tea, which, according to him, 'helped with inspiration'. The melody, composed by you, required rhythmic adaptation to be faithfully reproduced by enchanted physical mechanisms. A logistical process that would make a mid-sized dark guild feel incompetent.]
"And let's be honest, Eos, he was a grumpy elf. Half-blind in one eye and with a weird accent that sounded like a mix of a mountain dialect and a cat being drowned. His workshop was hidden behind a shop front that should have changed its name to 'Counterfeit Violins & Other Musical Disappointments'. The place looked like a warehouse for cursed relics and cogs that turned out of sheer accumulated trauma." I paused for a moment, the memory of that claustrophobic and fascinating place coming to mind. He worked with tweezers the size of eyelashes and screws that could only be seen with a magical microscope. And he complained. About everything. The damp. The government. The youth. The quality of my fairy-wing dust (which was perfectly legitimate, thank you very much). A lovely old chap, in short.
"But it was worth it. The music... I composed it myself." The words came out lower than I intended, almost a secret confessed to the cold air. "Every note was scribbled in a small notebook with more doubts than I was willing to admit, even to myself. It's the only present on this stupid list that... that I really don't want her to break. Or throw away in a fit of rage. Or forget in some drawer."
[...Your level of sentimentality is reaching alarming peaks, Azra'il. You're being adorable. Would you like me to activate the self-sabotage protocol with a particularly cruel comment to compensate and restore balance?]
"Not now. I still need to pick up the present. You can remind me how pathetic I am later."
The streets remained lit, the cold trying to bite at my skin, but without success. The internal energy I cultivated kept me warm, a small private furnace of power and indifference. Inside my coat, hidden in interdimensional pockets, rested all the small pieces of affection I pretended not to have, wrapped in pretty paper and denial.
And there, among twinkling lights and distant laughter, there I went, the ancient, grumpy, and socially inept creature, trying, against all logic and my own will, to make this Christmas not just another one in the endless, tedious cycle of reincarnations.
But a Christmas she would remember. Damn it. I urgently needed a less complicated hobby.
The alleyway was so narrow that even the shadows seemed hesitant to enter, probably afraid of getting stuck. Two buildings, pressed one against the other, made of rotten wood and bricks covered in dead ivy, formed the passage. A crooked, faded sign hanging above the entrance read "Violins & String Repairs (Perhaps)", as if the sign itself had given up on promising anything.
The place smelt of enchanted dust, expired varnish, and the melancholy of out-of-tune music. A constant sound of strings being tightened and small mechanical clicks echoed from within the walls, as if the building were breathing with rusty gears instead of lungs. I pushed the door open. It creaked like a tired soul being forced to get up early.
Inside, the light was warm and dim, coming from lanterns that floated lazily. The air was thick with the soft sound of ticks and tocks, as if time itself were being dismantled and reassembled, piece by piece, by mad watchmakers. Automata, small metal dolls with thin arms and glass eyes, dusted shelves or walked in perfect circles, each on its own mysterious mission. One of them, shaped like a brass raven, stopped, stared at me with its ruby eyes, and saluted with one wing. I did not return it. Familiarity with mechanical servants tends to diminish the charm.
"You're back," a hoarse voice growled from the darkness between the shelves, where soulless violins and harps with broken strings were piled high.
The elf appeared from between stacked boxes, wearing a leather apron stained with gold paint. Tiny cogs hung from his pointed ears like eccentric earrings, and a monocle with a cracked lens was fixed in one of his eyes. The visible eye was milky, blind. The other, behind the monocle, was far too sharp for someone who worked with delicate miniatures. It seemed to see not only what was in front of me, but also the loose threads of my patience.
"To my eternal surprise, you haven't blown anything up since your last visit," he commented, his tone a mix of relief and disappointment.
"Haven't had the time," I replied, crossing my arms. "The city offers so many other opportunities for chaos, I had to prioritise. Did you bring what I asked for?"
He huffed, a sound like a gear in need of oil, and disappeared between the shelves, opening drawers with the noise of a possessed typewriter. "I had to adjust the mechanism of your little dancing automaton three times. Your melody is... complicated. Very quiet at the beginning, but with an excessive emotional weight in the lower notes. It unbalances the mechanism."
"It's for the redhead," I grumbled, without thinking. The word slipped out before I could stop it.
"Hm," he grunted back from the shadows. "Sounds like the soundtrack to someone trying to confess a feeling, but is too ashamed to use words. Pathetic. And very common."
"I DIDN'T ASK FOR A MUSIC CRITIC'S REVIEW, YOU GRUMPY OLD COOT. JUST THE PRESENT."
He laughed, a dry, metallic sound, like cogs laughing. And then he returned, holding something with both hands, but he didn't show it to me immediately. Instead, he approached a counter covered in tiny tools and placed a gift box there.
It was rectangular, small, but with a finish that completely clashed with this den of mechanical chaos. Lined with a dark wine-red velvet fabric, with pale gold details on the edges, as if it had been wrapped by hands too meticulous for someone so grumpy. Around it, a thin, simple black satin ribbon. No exaggerated bow. Just a side knot, elegant, precise. And on top, fastened with a scarlet wax seal, a small folded note, written in my own hesitant handwriting.
No sender. No message. Just one word, a name, that seemed to contain an entire universe.
'Erza.'
"It's all calibrated," the elf said, wiping his hands on his apron. "The key turns perfectly. The little doll dances in time. The music plays without going out of tune. I did as you asked."
A silence hung between us as I just stared at the present. It was so small, yet it felt so heavy.
"Are you going to give it to her in person?" he asked, his good eye scrutinising me over his broken monocle.
"...Of course I am," I replied, my voice lower than normal. Damn it.
He looked at me for a few seconds, and then nodded, as if he understood more than he should and had the decency not to comment.
I picked up the box. It was light in my hands. Too light for everything it carried.
[Object with high emotional density detected. Predicted sentimental impact analysis: significant, with the possibility of causing undesirable physiological reactions, such as crying or dopey smiles. User currently in a state of subtle anxiety disguised as sarcasm. Suggested protocol: do not drop, do not crush under the weight of your own insecurities, and, for the love of all entities, do not run away when it's time to deliver it.]
I sighed and placed the box with almost reverent care inside the fold of my coat, which in reality was just the entrance to my dimensional inventory. Safer than my own clumsy pockets.
"If she doesn't like it, it's your fault."
"If she doesn't like it," the elf said with a crooked little smile that tugged at the scar on his lip, "perhaps you're choosing the wrong music for the wrong dancer. Or maybe, just maybe, you need to learn to dance along."
I left the shop with the sound of gears and cheap philosophy echoing behind me. And with my heart strangely... light. Or heavy. Or both. A terribly human and inconvenient feeling.