tá an ghaoth chomh maith do gach aon duine.

Domeric looked at her and the ease of charm appeared on his face, a smile passing over his face. "Well, of course you may meet them. You'll have to make your way to the Vale some time. Of course, you may need your closest male relatives permission or something to accompany you." He knew the lady before him was a Florent and while he didn't know much about the Florents but he could only assume they were as strict as any other house when women were involved.

at his mention of permission, her lips curved faintly, not quite amusement, not quite resignation. “perhaps,” she allowed, voice light but edged with something knowing. “though i think i’ve grown rather used to finding my own way in the world, when i must. besides , i’m not sure if my dear cousin omer would enjoy such a trip, though i’m sure he’d allow me to go with company. i still have friends there, i think.” she tilted her head slightly, a soft glint of humor in her eyes. “still, the it is a tempting offer. i’d like to see it properly one day, i was a bit confined on account of the war, sadly.” she had grown comfortable in runestone, but she never quite bloomed there.

Domeric enjoyed intellectual pursuit and he thought that of all the regions the Reach would offer a learned man the most in academic desires. They were just pompus. Valemen were pompous but Reachmen were perfumed and pompous. For him, the Verdant Concord was the epitome of studying people and watching how they carried themselves when swords weren't so quick to grab.

at his mention of trinkets, her gaze drifted again toward the nearby stalls, thoughtful. “there are a few things i’ve seen that might suit,” she replied. “nothing too loud. carved combs, brooches, just little things that aren’t showy, but have character.” she glanced back to him. “for a mother, something pretty, something chosen with gratitude in mind. for a grafton mother,” she added with a soft smile, “i imagine a string of pearls would be well loved.” her expression gentled further. “for daughters… perhaps something that reminds you of them. something chosen from the heart.” she gave a small, almost disbelieving breath of a laugh. “i can hardly believe you have daughters now. perhaps i’ll have the privilege of meeting them one day.”

"i've always been able to sniff out a bakery. it's my hidden talent." she spoke with a theatrical pride, clearly poking fun at her own expense. "my mother used to say if i kept it up, my hips would grow so wide i wouldn't be able to make it through the doorways at home. it hasn't happened yet, though, so i think that's a sign i should be eating more cake."

she lapsed into quiet as keira spoke of her charges. she'd only met the daughters of house frey in passing, at feasts and gatherings, always in the company of their father, and so didn't really know what they were like beyond the vivid pictures painted in keira's letters, seven mischievous little sprites. she gave her friend's arm a warm squeeze. "they don't know how lucky they are to have you there, kiki." she was sincere as she said it. she knew better than anyone keira's dedication to them, how she had poured her heart into her work. "and you've more than earned a rest. so you better let me spoil you today."

she replaced the candle on the table, shaking her head. "or sweaty feet," she added, nose wrinkling. "who on earth would buy that?" she asked, incredulous. not even the biggest cheese-lover in the realm would like it. the next candle was better. it conjured the image of a meadow in summer, daisies and dandelions dotted in the grass and wisps of cloud floating in the sky. "this one's nice, but it's green," she tutted. "we're looking for yellow."

she hummed at the thought of bakeries, amused at the mere thought of fiadh, as tiny as she was, unable to fit through a simple door. “your mother might have been onto something,” she said lightly, “but i think the world would be poorer if you ignored a talent like that.” keira’s gaze softened as fiadh spoke of the girls, her hand settling briefly over fiadh’s in return. “they’re good children,” she said simply. “loud, and clever, and full of questions. i don’t mind the work. but i won’t argue with being spoiled today.” the smile she offered then was small, grateful, and sincere. it was no secret to anyone how she had wanted children herself, greatly. she supposed this was the gods path for her instead.

her nose wrinkled again as the cursed candle was abandoned, and she let out a quiet laugh. “sweaty feet,” she repeated. “that’s even worse somehow.” she leaned in to sniff the next one, nodding approvingly. “this one’s lovely. very… peaceful. but you’re right. green won’t do.” she straightened, smoothing her skirts, eyes already drifting back toward the tree she’d chosen earlier.

"I thought that was you. Your hair stands out. Not as red as a Tully but not as light as a Vance."

The side to Lord Domeric Stone witnessed by the few would surprise the many. A side where the smile was easy and reached the eyes enough to be seen in sunlight. Even with black clothes making his dark features darker, the lord was well versed in different expressions and smiles. It took practice. Yes, he could be the same as he was in the North but what encouraged survival in the North promised death to men in most any other region.

"How are you, my lady? Are you enjoying your time here in the Reach?" Domeric enjoyed this Verdant Concord, he enjoyed intellectual conversation, he enjoyed listening to Lords debate over something other than war and coin. One could learn a lot about a man if they listened to his passions. Passions could be used against anyone.

Domeric crossed his arms behind his back as he observed the vibrance of the garden, as a lord who preferred the views from the tops of mountains he didn't hate the rolling hills of green, rows of flowers, and the smell of food before the smell of crowds reached his nose. When it came to crowds the lord preferred to disappear in them, hide away in the mass of people or stand on the edges of the crowd. From those edges he could see it all but this, this wasn't work.

“it’s good to see you again, lord domeric,” she added after a small pause, her voice gentle but sure. he had been part of a chapter in her life long past, yet there was comfort in the recognition. much had changed for him since they last really spoke, though she wasn't going to prod at that. he had risen well, despite it all, and truthfully, she was ignorant to the details of it all. “the reach has been… kind enough. kinder still with a familiar face about.” she gave a soft exhale. "i have been a bit homesick, too."

"... why are you saying sorry?" he asked after a beat, his honest confusion written on his face. it was a look of genuine bewilderment. now that she was no longer shouting at him, it was a little easier to lower his own defences, his frustration still there, but his anger ebbing. "it's yours, isn't it? so you weren't wrong to snap at me like that. i'd have done the same." or worse, depending on who had decided they felt like pawing through his things. "don't reckon i've earned your sorries, lady florent."

his hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, calloused fingers rough against his skin. he was still perched in the window seat, boots staining the upholstery with dirt, but he was looking at keira now, rather than directing his gaze elsewhere. it did little to ease the coil of what he thought was shame in his gut, but the more she spoke, the more he realised it was tinged with envy. it was the mere fact she had a place to put her words down that stirred it in him. ben had nothing like that, and even if he wanted to, he couldn't even attempt it. words were nothing more to him than squiggles on a page.

he shook his head. "didn't mean it to be cruel," he spoke quietly, though he was no longer certain she needed that reassurance. "didn't mean nothing, really. just saw it had been left out and started flipping through." she hadn't realised that he couldn't make sense of it, and he did not mind keeping it that way. "i didn't know it was yours, or something private. just thought it was something like the rest of the books here."

there was a momentary panic when she asked about what he had read. without intending to, she had offered him two options to jump upon - the boat and the twins. but then, he had no clue what boat she was on about. riverboats seemed to be a fair guess, a common enough sight in frey lands, but she was a woman of the reach. she could have been talking about a completely different type of boat.

the twins seemed a safer bet, but then, was she talking about cyrene's children, or the frey's keep itself? it wasn't clear. and so, his only option was to tell the truth.

as he spoke, her grip on the book loosened. she looked around the room, lined with ledgers and herbals, war chronicles and family records, and her own journal really did look like any of them, its spine unmarked, its cover plain. she could imagine how easy it’d be to pick it up by mistake. the pressed blooms might’ve drawn a curious eye. “i suppose it doesn’t look all that different from the rest,” she admitted, her voice quiet but lighter now. “that’s on me. i’ve grown too comfortable here.”

she glanced up at him, the corner of her mouth tugging faintly, not quite a smile. “i can tell you’re being honest, lord blackwood. i’m grateful for that.” she gave a small, rueful gesture to the shelves. “and really, leaving something like this out in a library? i may as well have handed it to someone myself.”

a second round of chuckles escaped her, and fiadh pressed her free hand to her mouth to stifle them. "gods, keira, you were so serious about it, too. i love that you have so much faith in me, even when you shouldn't." because when fiadh had suggested she would enter the archery, keira hadn't scoffed at the idea. she had supported it, and the mere thought of that sent a wave of affection through her.

"we all know pastries is where my true talents lie." she'd always had a tooth for the sweetest of foods, the kind that would make her teeth ache after she'd eaten too much of it. "but that's better put to use finding little treats for our picnic than out on the tourney grounds." the idea of it excited her. as it usually was, her lute was strapped to her back, and she made up her mind that she would play it for keira when they sat to eat, a little song just for her.

"it does sound like a lovely day," she spoke a little wistfully as they arrived at the edge of the tourney, and began pacing the stalls in search of the candles they were after. "and we deserve it, don't we? a lovely day." she said we, but really, she meant keira. she worked hard up at the twins for her young charges, and had more than earned a day like this.

at the mention of sweets, keira’s brows lifted knowingly. “oh, you’ll find the best ones before i’ve even looked up from the first stall,” she teased. “you’ve got a sixth sense for it, i swear.” she let out a softer breath, her tone turning wistful. “the girls have been keeping me busy, but i can’t pretend i don’t like it. they’re funny, and clever, even if exhausting." and she was grateful for the purpose it gave her when she felt entirely aimless. "still, today feels special. i think we both needed it.”

she followed fiadh with easy steps, blinking as the offending candle was waved before her, smelling it involuntarily and scrunching his nose. “gods,” she recoiled, laughing. “it smells like... burnt butter or old cheese.” she gave a playful shudder. “that one’s cursed, toss it.”

"yeah," his thumb idly traced a scar at the base of his palm. "that's just it. you sit there thinking that if things had gone just a little bit different, things would be better. but..." he trailed off, giving a noncommittal shrug. this, he thought, was likely the difference between himself and keira florent. where she could count her blessings that her hardships had led her where she was today, conall didn't like himself enough for that. there was a moment where he nearly said that to her, nearly told her that he didn't recognise the man who looked back at him in the looking glass sometimes, but he held it back, a sense of shame creeping up his spine.

he finally looked up then, breathing out in a way that caused his breath to be visible in the chill. the silences that seemed to seep into the cracks of their conversations weren't uncomfortable, but he found himself wanting to fill them anyway, as though he shouldn't let it linger for too long.

his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but not a grimace either, when her laughter met the night air. she spoke of sweetness, and he was nodding, but more often than not, for him, it was found in the bottom of the bottle, and what kind of sweetness was that? his eyes followed hers back to the hall, where the rest of their kin remained, unbothered by the thoughts that had led the two of them to seek solace in the night. "i pray they never have to," he spoke quietly. "i wouldn't wish understanding it on anyway." because understanding meant knowing, and he would spare the lot of them that.

he finally let out a quiet laugh of his own, her teasing bringing a glint of humour back into his eyes. "if you've got something to smoke and a pack of matches hidden somewhere on you, you're a better person than me for not lighting up immediately. i've been puffing like a chimney all night." it was obvious, from a glance at the ground to see the butts littered at his feet that conall had been out here for a while.

“you know,” she said after a time, eyes fixed ahead, “i used to think grief would go away. that it’d shrink down into something small enough to carry in a pocket. something you could forget about for a while.” her hands rubbed at her arms, more for something to do than for warmth. “but it doesn’t. it stays. quieter, maybe, but never gone.”

she glanced sideways, not expecting anything from him, just offering a truth of her own. she didn’t want to drag out his pain, only let him know that she understood it, in her own way.

“some nights,” she said softly, after a long stretch of just wind and breath, “you don’t need much more than this.” her hand gestured lightly, toward the stars, the cold, the space between the hall and the dark trees beyond. “just to be outside of it all for a bit. feels easier to breathe. i'm sure you have a much better view on the open ocean, though."

as they walked, the glow of the hall faded behind them, the music becoming no more than a dull thrum. in its place: the sound of grass underfoot, the occasional snap of a twig, the steady rhythm of two people walking in quiet company.

she tilted her chin up toward the sky, the stars catching in her lashes. “you were right,” she said, nodding toward the constellation he’d pointed out earlier. “maiden’s veil. my ma used to say that if you could find it without looking too hard, the gods were giving you a sign. peace, or protection. something like that.” she gave a soft, dry laugh. “she always wanted there to be a reason behind things.”

his words sat between them like a stone in her palm—solid, heavy, and not quite what she had hoped for. she understood him well enough by now to know he wasn’t trying to be cruel, only distant. and yet, keira had never been the sort to leave things untouched just because they were difficult. if she had been, she’d have folded into herself long ago, let the world carry her where it willed rather than trying to carve a place in it.

“aye, i suppose they do,” she murmured in response, lifting her gaze toward the high, arched windows where only the faintest glimmers of starlight could be seen. “perhaps can be comfort found in that itself. no matter where you are, no matter what’s changed, they’ll always be there, shining just the same.”

she let the quiet stretch between them, the only sound the occasional pop from the fire, the distant murmur of the household settling for the night. then, she exhaled a breath, tilting her head slightly. “maybe that’s why i like ‘em. steady things are hard to come by in this world.”

the tension in the space between the two of them remained thick, but she caught the faintest flicker of something in his expression—thoughtfulness, perhaps, or an awareness of the weight in her words. keira didn’t expect him to answer, not really. he was a man built on silence and steel, on duty and unspoken burdens. but she hoped, at least, that he might hear her.

at his mention of rain, she let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “always know before it comes, don’t you?” there was a quiet fondness in her tone, though she did not press it. “i’ll dress warm, then.”

her fingers brushed over the edge of the table as she turned slightly, hesitating before she took a step away. then, glancing back at him, she offered, just lightly, “you could come with me, y’know. you don’t have to find peace in it. just... company.”

graham didn’t stir. her voice hung behind him like the last thread of summer, delicate and quiet, but not enough to move him. he remained by the door, arms crossed over his chest, the weight of his maille still on him even though the war was over—at least, the kind fought on open fields. he stared at the wall, at the pattern of soot and time marking the stones, as if it could explain something he couldn’t. “aye, still - i’ve never much cared for company,” he said finally, his tone flat, deliberate. he had already made it abundantly clear he did not wish to be here in this moment; to sit opposite her and be wholly aware of her empty womb, and the fact they were both in this with little choice of their own. “not for the sake of it.”

he didn’t look at her. hadn’t properly in the days since he returned from the frontlines, if he was honest, though the thought didn’t bring guilt, only a dull sort of resignation. keira had always had the sort of voice that crept in softly, like the first cold wind before the frost. never demanding. never loud. and that was part of the trouble—he didn’t know what to do with softness. never had. she meant well. he knew that. she always had. and yet, it didn’t change the way her presence started to feel like another duty, another weight he couldn’t shift. she asked for so little, but in that asking, reminded him how little he gave.

“not much use in watching stars, lass.” he muttered, more to himself than her as he put down the napkin on the table. “men go out lookin’ for omens in them. answers. don’t tend to find much more than what they brought with them.”

he shifted slightly, his gaze still on the stones, as though they might crack open and swallow him whole. it was easier, thinking about weather or duty or the slow repairs to the outer wall. things he could measure, fix, make sense of. not whatever it was she wanted from him—connection, maybe. or warmth. “stars are just stars,” he muttered, jaw tightening - not because he was irritated, but rather because he too was uncomfortable. “folk like to pretend they mean something. but they don’t. they’re just there.” things he had no training in. there was a time he’d tried, briefly. a summer after their wedding, when the fields were golden and her smile hadn’t yet dimmed. but war had come too soon. and he’d changed on campaign, hardened in ways that didn’t peel off with armour. “i’ve enough to think on without chasing stars,” he added, adjusting his stance, the way a man does when he wants to signal the conversation ought to end. “you go. i’ll stay.” he didn’t say it unkindly, but there was no invitation in it either.

still, he glanced her way—not fully, not directly. just enough to see the outline of her in the firelight, her profile all quiet hope and soft defiance. she hadn’t stopped trying. that was her mistake. still, he silently unclasped his own cloak from around his shoulders and stepped forward, closing the distance between them when offering her his cloak. he put it loosely over her shoulders, his hands not lingering a moment longer than needed on her skin - something she would have noticed. it would not have taken long for her to notice that he were not attracted to his wife; that the sight of her did not cause his heart rate to raise, or make him feel that sense of restlessness which always resulted in him going on hunts rather than take to women that lingered on the ends of war camps.

he didn’t add anything more. he meant it practically—like a man advising a stablehand to close the gate—but her silence lingered like disappointment. he thought, not for the first time, about how this was meant to be easier. they were married. they shared a roof, a name. the war was behind them. and still, each word felt like hauling stone uphill. his fingers flexed briefly at his side. she hadn’t asked, not directly. but it hung there. not just the silence—but the shape of what was expected. they ought to be trying, by now. it had been long enough. too long. a child would settle matters. give her purpose that was more than just wafting around him like some creeping child. give their some union weight.

they ought to be doing their duty, plain and simple. the bedding act wasn’t just ceremony. not now. a child would put things right. or at least, make things simpler.

but he didn’t know how to bring it up. couldn’t imagine sitting down beside her, saying it like it was weather or supper. he couldn’t picture reaching for her in that way, not when they’d barely spoken, not when the distance between them felt like a gulf. so he didn’t. and a part of him grew irritated with himself for thinking too much on the matter; it were a duty between a man and his wife. it was expected of her, and surely she knew that when exchanging their vows. “don’t stay out long,” he said, and it came out gruff. too sharp, maybe, for what it meant. he turned, the door clicking shut behind him, and left her to the stars.

she'd fallen into step beside keira, the copper-gold of her hair catching in the sunlight as she walked. "maybe we'll get lucky, and they'll have a candle that's lavender and honey?" she suggested, giving keira's arm a soft squeeze. "sweet and soothing, just like you, kiki. and it'll match our scarves," she gestured around their necks, the combination of purple and yellow. "maybe we will find something purple and yellow for me, too. lemon, maybe? and rosemary? that flowers purple, don't it?" it was the perfect example of the contrast between them. while keira was drawn to warmer, more tranquil scents, fiadh's taste was brighter, more energetic.

for a moment, confusion passed over fiadh's face, before she realised what it was keira thought she needed luck for. "oh, kiki," she covered her mouth with one hand, stifling a laugh that felt cruel to let pass her lips. "i'm sorry, i thought you knew i was joking about entering the archery. imagine the disaster. i'd be almost as bad as lord westerling on horseback. oh, but i love that you had faith in me, though." she slipped her arm back through keira's.

“oh, thank the gods,” she said, her accent thick with relief as the tension melted from her shoulders. “you had me picturin’ all sorts of disaster, bolts goin’ sideways, someone losin’ an eye, poor old lord westerling tryin’ to dodge behind a bale of hay. i swear, fiadh, don’t do that to me.”

she gave fiadh’s arm a playful nudge, still chuckling as they walked. “you had that whole little speech, too. the bouquet twirlin’, the grin, i was convinced! i nearly started prayin’ for the crowd.” her eyes glinted with mischief now. “though i’ve no doubt ye could sneak a pastry mid-competition and no one’d be the wiser.”

the crowd around them shifted, laughter and music floating past in snatches as they wove through the festival path. keira tilted her head at fiadh’s mention of scents, her smile softening. “lavender and honey... now that does sound like somethin’ made for me.” she bumped their shoulders gently. “and lemon and rosemary? bright, sharp, and bold. like someone else i know.”

her gaze lingered on their scarves, the contrasting colours catching the sun. “we’ll find somethin’ for you, don’t worry. purple and yellow’s good luck. we’ll carry it with us all day.”

she gave fiadh a sidelong look, the corners of her mouth lifting. “candles, bard tales, archery from a safe distance, and a river picnic?” she reached out to pluck a stray petal from fiadh’s hair. “that sounds like the perfect day to me.”

"i wasn't..." he began, before cutting himself off. a muscle jumped in his jaw as he frowned, both in an effort to keep his temper and to try and think of a suitable lie as to why he had it in his hands that would cover the truth - that he had not been reading her private thoughts, because ben could barely read at all.

"i wasn't reading it," he said, words sharp, but coming too slow to be entirely believable. his fingers flexed against the cover, as though debating whether to toss it to her or hold on to it out of sheer spite. "you're handwriting's shit, anyway. can't make no sense of half of it, and the rest is complete drivel." the insult came before he could stop it, evidently taking even ben by surprise.

"saw your name on the cover and got curious, that's all," he grumbled. it might have been convincing - if it were not for the fact that keira florent's name was not on the cover at all.

he held the journal out, all but shoving it into her chest, though it was not a rough gesture. if anything, it was more careful that she might have expected. "here, take it." he didn't meet her eyes as he turned away, stepping back towards the window and taking his seat, thinking little about lifting one leg to rest a muddy boot on the upholstery. his stomach was churning, both with frustration, and something else he didn't care to name.

ben knew what he was. a soldier before anything else. it was all he had known since he was a young boy, too young to really know what he had missed out on. but that... that, he knew all too well. he was not normally ashamed of the things he could not do, but reading was different. it was as though it had been stolen from him the moment he picked up a sword instead of a quill.

“thank you,” she said, quiet now, her voice still rough at the edges. her fingers curled round the leather, holding it close like it could shield her.

she turned away, only a bit, arms wrapping around the journal. “i shouldn't've snapped at ye,” she said, her tone lower, thick with a breath she didn’t quite let out. “i was...startled, that’s all. doesn't make it right. i’m sorry.”

she cleared her throat, a small sound, trying to steady herself. “i know it’s only pages. words. ink and such. but that journal’s where i put things i can’t say out loud. not always important things. just thoughts, feelings—bits of me i’m not keen to share with the world. and seein’ ye with it...” her voice trailed off, and she gave a quick shake of her head, lips pressing tight. “i thought it was a cruelty. even if it wasn’t meant that way.”

then, slowly, she looked back to him. there wasn’t heat in her eyes now—just something careful and tired. “what did ye read?” she asked, quiet and curious, but not unkind. “was it the bit about the boat? or...” she tilted her head slightly, brows knitting together. “somethin’ about the twins? i write about 'em a fair bit.”

her eyes flicked down to the journal, then back up to his face. “can’t recall if i wrote anythin’ about you,” she said, and the second it left her mouth, she looked like she regretted it. her shoulders tensed, jaw tight, but she didn’t take it back. it was not meant in a rude way, just simply, many random thoughts and observations could be find scrawled within the contents of this journal.

Then, with a soft, measured tone, he spoke. “There are no burdens here. If I found you burdensome, you wouldn’t be here, cousin. I check in because we are family and it is the spirit of the season.” His words were blunt, but there was a warmth behind them that betrayed the hard truths of their past.

Omer’s eyes softened as he continued, “I’m doing well, Keira. The family is alright. We’ll be having more children soon, by the grace of it all.” A brief smile played on his lips as he remembered brighter times amid the darkness. He knew that though trust was fragile—bonds forged long ago could shatter in a heartbeat—the ties that bound them still held strong, if only for moments like these.

He shifted his weight, his gaze steady on hers. “I’ve seen enough to know that nothing’s perfect. But tonight, we share this moment, we share our burdens, and we find strength in our kinship. We may carry our secrets and our scars, but we also carry hope.”

“you’ve always been good to me, cousin,” she said, her voice light, touched with fondness. “not everyone is.”

her fingers traced idle patterns against her skirts, a gentle, absent gesture. “it’s grand to hear the family’s well. more little ones—what a gift that is. i can only imagine the mischief runnin’ through the halls.” her smile deepened, soft and knowing. “ye must be proud.”

she turned her gaze toward the window, where the lantern light flickered against the dark. “as for meself, i manage well enough. the days come and go, and i find ways to fill ‘em. i take walks when the air is fresh, i read stories that make me smile, and every so often, i catch meself hummin’ a tune i thought i’d long forgotten. strange, isn’t it? how music finds its way back to us?”

she looked back at him then, a teasing glint in her eyes. “and what of you, cousin? do ye still test death by throwin’ yourself off the cliffs at brightwater, or have ye finally grown some sense?” she raised a brow, as if she already knew the answer. “i suppose we can thank the gods for small mercies if ye have. though, knowin’ you, i wouldn’t be surprised if ye still go flyin’ off those rocks just to see if the sea will catch ye.”

his eyes fell back upon keira, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. "it does," he confirm, the smile appearing on his face a small, sad thing. "i'm glad to hear you're doing well, though. despite... everything." he did not speak it aloud, a flush of red creeping up his neck at the mere fact that he had brought it up at all. their circumstances were different, but it was similar enough to set them apart from their friends, and tonight, that was enough.

keira seemed to bear the weight of it a little better than conall, though. there was a steadiness to the way he spoke that he was certain he did not possess. he was a man who always seemed upon the brink of unravelling, and thought it was never entirely hidden, it was clear now, in this moment of solitude. "yeah. life has a way of reminding us at the best of times, doesn't it?" he let out a small chuckle, though there was no humour in it. resignation, perhaps. "a better man than me would tell you it's all the more reason to hold on to the sweet, but," he spread his arms, giving a shrug that finished the sentence for him. conall made no claims to be a better man.

he leaned back against the wall, breath misting in the air, allowing the faint smile to return to his lips. he wiped his fingers on his trousers, ridding them of the last traces of ash. "sorry," he shot her an apologetic glance. "convenient excuse to step outside for a minute, isn't it? besides, gives me something to do with my hands." his tone was light, but there was a note of melancholy to it as he spoke. there were nights where it clung to him, but it felt a little more like a shared weight tonight. "it's not so much they ain't good company. it's just sometimes... well, you need a moment to yourself, don't you? to rest yourself." he did not elaborate on it further, instead hoping keira would get what he was saying without him needing to.

"but you're not interrupting," he added, hurriedly. he straightened a little, rolling his shoulders to fend off the chill from the wall creeping through his clothes. "if anything, you've stopped me going into my own head entirely, so thank you for that." his laugh was quiet, self-deprecating, though the smile slid from his face when she asked how he was. it was always difficult to put into words how he felt about abigail, the way they had started strong before crashing and burning.

"it's a cruel trick our minds play, isn't it?" she murmured, her breath visible in the cold air. "to dangle the 'what ifs' before us, especially during times meant for joy." she paused, her fingers tracing the edge of her cloak. "i often find myself wandering down those paths, imagining different endings. but then, i wonder, would i be the person i am now without those losses?"

of course, their circumstances were different, she knew. the things that swirled in their minds that could possibly have been certainly were not the same, but as a result of these endings, it seemed that somehow they found themselves in the same, strange place, anyways. keira's arms crossed over her bodice, hugging herself for a bit of warmth against the chill, quickly brushing away stray red wisps that fluttered in front of her eyes.

at his comment, she couldn't help the air of laughter that escaped her. "but who among us can claim to be that 'better' person all the time? we do our best with the hands we're dealt, finding sweetness where we can." she exhaled, shoulders dropping slightly as if she deflated as she turned to gaze at the partygoers. "they all mean well, but they don't really understand, do they?" she mused, turning back to conall, her face quickly recovering into its usual, more gentle demeanor.

"as much as i try to keep the gloom at bay, i reckon i'd be lighting up a smoke myself if i had one." she offered him a teasing smile, her eyes reflecting a shared understanding. "i was only teasing about that, by the way. if it helps you, light up another." keira offered a smile, though she then wondered if he had given up his last just a moment ago.

'something to paint on, perhaps.' head bobs slightly in agreeance with the inward thought. some might say her way of making sense of things was quite nonsensical in itself. a mess of colors and curves meshing together to form a message that was only hers to decipher, but she had a childish thought that art was her answer for just about anything. that notion had been proven time and time again whether her mind was in disarray or in state of disassociation like she is now. the tickle of a gentle wind followed by the prick of a parchments edge against the top of her foot pulling her attention down to the soft earth that met the sole of her shoe.

only someone with a penchant for unsullied fingertips would allow it to float further without investigation. for she was a true observer of the arts and her keen eye could spot the daring use of charcoal from where she sat upright to where it had landed. shes nearly successful in getting a closer look, careful not to cause an unnecessary smear when the presumable owner calls out. cadence is a gentle one, comforting with the edge of a dialect she cant quite put a finger on.

“ye’ve a kind hand,” she observed, taking note of the way the woman had handled the parchment with such care. “most would’ve smudged it all to ruin without a second thought. perhaps not purposefully, just...many do not understand it.”

she tucked the page safely between the folds of her journal before properly meeting the woman’s gaze, her curiosity piqued by both her words and demeanor. the soft accent was unfamiliar to her, but the way she spoke—thoughtful, precise—reminded keira of those who understood the quiet language of art.

“i do prefer charcoal,” she admitted, brushing a stray smudge from her thumb. “it listens better than ink, if that makes sense. let’s me rethink a line or soften a shadow without much fuss.” a small chuckle left her lips, warm despite her usual reservations. “though i can’t say i’ve bested it yet—only learned to argue with it less.”

her gaze flickered briefly toward the gathering beyond, where laughter swelled like a tide, bright and unbothered. she had long since grown accustomed to observing from the edges, content in her solitude, but this woman, who handled art with reverence, intrigued her.

“and yerself?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, loose red curls dancing in the wind, framing her face. “ye sound as if ye’ve wrestled with charcoal before. do ye prefer it, or do ye fancy color more?”