Fire roared and embers crackled. However, no matter how hard it tried, its rage could not exceed a boundary set by a rim of black-charred stones. Its flames may have often overflowed but the wind that seeped through the windows and gaps between doors pushed back against its anger and forced the fires to be transformed into a pillar of lightish smoke that rose to the ceiling. There, a chimney above the hearth ventilated the living room where the floor had been built in two layers. The tiled ground around the fireplace was closer to the earth than the rest of the floor surrounding the hearthplace. Much of the lounge was raised on low stilts and though it may have once been expanse, it did not appear that way any more. Every inch of the wood-planked floor was covered by carpets, furred, with woven fabric, felt, or with wool, their colors were each vividly distinct, gifted by houses and statesmen of prestige. The home housed exquisite, handcrafted couches that a nobleman could only dream of ever loaning, even the simplest-appearing wooden chairs were worth a thousand crowns. But unlike the interior of a palace or and estate, there was not a single shelf that showcased anything of boast-worthiness. There were no ornamental weapons on display and there was just one thing of antiquity that was a baroque grandfather clock that stood out from the style of the living room with a sprawling display of gentle wealth. Aside from the clock, it seemed as if the home had been designed without potential danger, where grandparents could safely raise their grandchildren if they so wished. From the outside, the house may have appeared a humble abode for an old husband and his wife, surrounded by a park on all four sides and a pond at its rear entrance. The fences that bordered anything beyond this piece of property were too far behind thicket and gardens to be seen and whoever had lived there would often be able to forget that they were residents of the capital, the city of Haven. To the bicolored-eyed boy, it certainly felt that way.
Treating the home like it was his, he sat on a chair, leaning forward. His face felt the intensity of the fire and half a pace any closer he would receive burns if not that his lungs were already being seared. Smoking a cigarette that had been hastily put together, he soaked in a breathful of his self-claimed herbs of healing properties and exhaled its gray fumes. The lieutenant-elect stared at the moving flames that drew nearer and nearer, but he would oft reset his position, paranoid of his being alone. He looked to the front door, then to the windows, through which he could see his friends, outdoors, braving the breeze of the winter sea. The snow was up to Károly’s knees but he practiced his archery as if it did not bother him. Captivated by his art, Arnau and Siegfried watched from the side, however freezing it was as Arminius saw the little one shivering. Indoors, above his head, he heard the rustling of some clothes and something being dragged along its floor. Whatever it was, the surface of the object scraped across the ceiling yet when it was picked up, it was done so with surprising ease. His friend made his way out of the room and descended down the stairs. Careful, minding his steps, Julien appeared around the corner with something in his hand. Noticing him, Arminius sat upright as the Danner cautiously approached, afraid that he would drop it, and joined his lone comrade. When Julien came by the hearth, the object was set on the coffee table beside Arminius. Kneeling before it, leaning onto his heels, he showed his curious friend an antique box that was coated in silver and its carving had been filled with red and black ink. In the center of the case was a coat of arms but it had eroded away and had become undistinguishable. Whatever laid within it, the lieutenant could not ever had foreseen it being intact, but Julien was more optimistic.
Still, Arminius tossed his smoke into the fire having found more interest in the box than in poisoning himself. “What’s this…?” Turning to Julien, he swung his chair around.
“My grandfather’s prize from fifty years ago.” said Julien, modestly. “He was gifted this in return for a peace treaty.” Holding the box under his hand, he told.
Unsure if he meant to tell an honest story or had exaggerated, Arminius turned his focus away from the box to his friend. But it did not seem as though he was lying. Even if it was true, then the treasure would have been priceless. Seeing that he had lured, Julien did not test his patience any longer and promptly moved his hands onto the box’s lock. There was no key hole neither was a passcode needed, just will and a little strength when he gave a firm tug on the latch and released its seal. For five decades it had slept in the shadow, whatever was within was to feel the light of the sun and the warmth of a hand again. The box opened facing the Danner whose eyes were instantly captured by the marvel of its contents. It was only when he remembered that the purpose in opening it was to show Arminius did he spin the box around, delicately, for the lieutenant to see. Arminius leaned forward, who could not bear the wait, but when he peered inside the box, the object that laid on a velvet cushion was something he did not expect to see as protected as a jewel was.
Arminius’s expression turned from excitement to puzzlement, then to fascination again. “A pistol…?” It had an obvious appearance of a hand cannon but to be a gift of goodwill for a treaty, he did not think it worthy.
Understanding the doubts that clouded him, Julien drew the pistol out of the box. “Yeah, he saw this as no more than a sign of trust.” In his hands was the gift in question that did not shimmer like an ornamental piece meant to be displayed. “Once the war was over, he’d intended to return it to its rightful keeper, but he never had the chance.” The Danner added to the story of this particular handgun.
Quietly, still, when Julien reached out with the pistol in his open hands, he lowered his head and it was clear what his gesture meant. Arminius was startled by his behavior that seemed awfully well-mannered even by his standards. He gazed down, his heart unwilling to receive it, but his curious hands had already begun to move without the counsel of his thoughts. Slowly, he let Julien free of the burden and lifted the pistol before his eyes. There was the allure of a simple handgun, over a hundred years old as marked by its manufactured date. The initials of its producer and designer was etched in platinum: B-B. However, for its age, it was still in pristine condition. Even its grip had been hardly weathered and its black silver coating appeared nearly new. The body of the pistol must have underwent extensive reworks or it had never been used before. When Arminius released a catch, its magazine fell into his hands. Empty, although, he did half-expect there to be some rounds left. As he plugged the magazine into the pistol again, he noticed the iron cross that was branded on its grip.
He recognized its emblem, the Zhermanner symbol of guardianship, but the rightful keeper that Julien had mentioned, he did not know who he meant. “Whose was this?” Arminius asked, overflowing with questions. “Are you sure…?”
“It’s what I was told, at least.” Julien was unsure of his story as well, but he sounded certain that he meant to give him this gift. “Besides, I never got the chance to give you a present.” Turned away, he shyly gave his reason.26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCfSmO86vbN
