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After slipping her glasses off, she wiped them with a hankercheief. She blinked, readjusting her eyes to the sight around her. Rising from the chair.

Nishan let out a dreamy sigh, sliding a ribbon between the pages. Folding it shut and puts it back on the shelf. She stretched her arms,

During the ship's departure, she busied herself with reading books: none of which had anything to do with her duties.

Usually, she would be in the library, surrounded by maps and books to take notes on. However, she wanted to spend some time on reading stories instead of information. Stories where her imagination would transport her somewhere else. Whether in lands of magic or empires of intrigue, she devoured the words filling up those pages.

A bit too much that she hadn't realized she didn't taken dinner yet. She ought to considering the rest of the crew must have.

Nishan set a foot onto the hallway, wearing her glasses once more.

Her breathing rate elevated as her pulse climbed onto her throat. Her eyes slightly widened at Kumari, who bounced in her movements. She moved back once her mouth slacked a bit.

"Hi there!" She waved, approaching her.

"Oh, hi," Nishan said, her stomach tying itself into fluttering knots. Her lips lifted into a smile. "Weren't you... weren't you with the others earlier?"

Kumari chuckled, nodding. "Yes, but I let them be once they made it clear the game would go longer. And I didn't want to be there for too long."

"Then where... where you're off to?" she asked, trying to not wince.

Around this girl, her ability of speech tended to be faltering. She could be unsure around strangers, opting to not speak much unless neccessary. And with her... she found things that she yearned to tell her, to talk to her about. And yet she couldn't due to how her nerve abandoned her.

A dilemma she couldn't talk about with anyone. Lest she revealed her... situation regarding her... friend. Teammate?

"I was about to go to my room," Kumari replied, hitching her thumb at the other corridor ahead. "What about you?"

"I have been reading stories." She resisted the urge to gulp despite her dry mouth. "I t-thought that a break would be... refreshing."

Kumari grinned, smacking her hands together. "Yay! You're taking a break! It must be good to have rest after several weeks of work. Have you already taken dinner? I haven't seen you at the galley."

The way her bubbly voice could wrap her in it's mirth. Or have blood filling her cheeks.

Someone so friendly and carefree... how lovely. So spirited and... brave in spite of the potential dangers ahead of them. Someone who carried a talent for speaking without hesitation. Everything that sent her heart racing and her mind whirling.

...if she had reasons to be cooped up in her work, it would be this. She could be too fixated on Kumari than she probably had to be.

"I-I hadn't eaten yet. Like for dinner, that is."

"Oh my! You didn't? Let's grab some grub!"

"Wait, you... you want to accompany me?"

Her gut tightened at a sudden frown on her face.

"Sorry, I... of course, I won't if you'd rather be by yourself. You value solitude and all that."

"Well, I don't I'd be b-bothered by some company."

At that, Kumari grinned again and they both proceeded towards the galley. Howls of laughter resounded from the walls. She smiled, shaking her head at the antics they must be getting into. A faint scent of a stew greeted her nose as they entered the dining hall.

She plucked a loaf from a basket, taking a nibble.

"I'll get food for you," Kumari said. "You just take your seat. I'll be back in a jiffy."

With a nod, she ignored a tingle within her chest at the gesture. She walked towards a chair by the candle resting beside an empty spot. The flames glimmered from the pale light above.

Just as her stomach grumbled, Nishan carried a tray and set it in front of her. She lifted the lid with a flourish, bowing.

"Ta-da!" She laughed, gesturing at the bowl of soup.

"Thank you," Nishan murmured, smiling.

Kumari winked, plopping down onto a chair beside her. "You're welcome."

"Um, I-I think you should go. You don't h-have to be here longer than you want to."

"Pfft, I don't have a problem. Besides, I missed having you at dinner, so..."

When Nishan paused on chewing, Kumari bowed her head while her laugh trembled.

Her face illuminated by the candlelight, highlighting a warmth within her brown eyes. Reminding her of a crystal that her father collected once. A tourmaline with it's dark shade similar to a tree's bark. A sight those would be fortunate to have a glimpse of.

Eyes that brown weren't something most poets tend to write about. Yet if she could, she would conjure a poem based on it. Along with the feelings that she kindled in her. She tend to not be eloquent whenever she had to speak. However, on paper... she could find it in herself to be.

Regardless, Nishan did her best in appreciating Kumari whenever she could. However she could.

They both shared a smile while she reveled in a meal, overwhelmed by the vibrant company of an awe-spiring girl.

In the darkness, when the candlewick has burned down to nothing, I allow my eyes to adjust to the lack of light and I look at you, the dim curve of your shoulder as you lie with your back exposed to me, and once again I wonder why you keep coming back.

You only let me touch you by candlelight.

This is how it always is. You arrive at my door long after the night draws in, and you are always gone by the time dawn comes. By day, you act as though nothing is different between us.

Yet here, in the circle drawn by a single unsteady flame, you shudder apart underneath me. Your grip is tight on my shoulders; your gaze glitters in the dance of the candlelight, and you do not say a word.

Not once have you said a word. That’s never been what this is about. You come to my door and I open it to you; our bodies talk where tongues will not, cannot.

—

I don’t believe you’re even aware I know of your eyes’ greatest flaw: That in the darkness you, Revali, can barely see a thing.

You sought to hide that, didn’t you? Not even your allies could know of this weakness — that must be how you saw it. If you had your way, would anyone have found out?

(I will never tell you this: I pieced it together that night when we made camp in the Crenels. You had the first watch. Urbosa must have thought she was being kind in offering it to you. She didn’t wake to see you sat ramrod-straight by the fire, tension in every sinew, every spit and crack of the embers, indistinguishable from a snapping branch, enough to halfway rouse you to alarm. The next time, you were given the final watch, the one that greets the dawn; I remember the flicker of gratitude in your eyes, swiftly quelled, and resolved never to let you know whose intercession changed her mind.)

But it made me wonder, afterwards, whether this is why you only let me touch you by candlelight, when the light is dim. Whether it allows you the easy fiction that you’re with somebody else, not me.

Early on, that might have been the case. But it never explained why you keep coming back.

And every time, you come back. It might be a few days later, it might take you a week; but without fail, you arrive back at my door; and every time, I open it to you.

I still don’t think I imagined that momentary glint of gratitude. Sometimes, I wonder whether you are as lonely as I am. Perhaps that is why you return.

—

…When it’s over, I watch you in the aftermath, as your eyes slide shut and you fight to calm the flutter caged in your chest. At this point, like always, you seem to hesitate on the fragile border of speech, teetering on the edge of saying something.

When you do, this will shatter apart, irreversibly. Sometimes I think you know it as well as I.

Sometimes I almost think you intend to break it anyway.

The candle sputters and the moment passes once more. You pull the barrier back across your eyes, hiding any trace of vulnerability; the lingering pressure against my shoulder turns to a push, your tolerance for contact reaching its limit.

—

As for me? I’ve always liked fire, been interested in fire, have been intrigued by fire. Sounds awfully similar doesn’t it? Are you afraid I’ll end up the same as them, consumed by my own mania, fallen for The Flame? You know, I might have thought the same throughout the years. But I’ve found that my fascination, pardon my interest in fire differed from others. Where they wanted to see The Flame grow and consume I was content with it being small and staying small. It was the fragility of fire, the struggle for air, that attracted me to it. Fighting against the source that feeds for the chance to live, knowing that too much of it will surely kill you… it is kind of poetic, is it not? I can lose hours of a night just looking at the candlelight, looking at is unending struggle for life. Serenity descends upon me at those times, The Flame centers my thoughts and everything becomes clear.

That candleflame, the limited amount of light it provides does not show weakness. It shows that even small things have the potential to become great. I feel that is the reason why I never lost interest in candles and the form of fire, why my house is littered with them. I just can’t get enough of it. It wasn’t a big surprise then that I made it into a profession and went into studying and eventually teaching Fire Magic. I wanted to know, nay I needed to know what this fireform was and what it could do and become. That knowledge needed to be mine. I wanted others to know about that delightful fire as well, they needed to see the beauty of it.

Others were skeptical and suspicious of me at the beginning, of course. The way I obsessed with the candle was something they had too many times. I’ve heard that there was a betting pool going around on when and how I would finally snap, how I would give in to the hunger of The Flame, and embrace the wildfires. Truth be told though, I hate wildfires, they have forgone all potential, and can only destroy, the heat they give does not nurture, does not sustain, it merely kills.

The candlelight, however, provides you with the light to see, the light to read. The candlelight provides the heat for the teakettle, the heat for the stove. The candlelight is The Flame that gives knowledge, it is The Flame that sustains.

And that’s why I’ve always been fascinated by fire.”

The clarion wail of the siren rippled through the air, through the glass, through the blanketing of the blackout-blinds.

Oh bother, bother Germans. Sam sighed, made herself get out of the chair, the very comfortable chair, as Kit quickly tipped some water, kept nearby onto the flames in the grate, "Go down, I'll be there in a moment."

Sam crossed the room, out into the hall and opened the understaurs door, lifting the lamp from the little hook inside. She waited, looking back until Kit came through the lounge doorway, and frowned at her.

She got out of bed, scooping the blanket into her arms and padded to the door. Kit stood there, eyes impatient, then he quickly turned and went down the stairs. She followed him down the wind of staircase, then took the lamp from him, then she ducked, went through the door and down the wooden staircase into the cellar. Behind her there was the thick darkness and click as Kit pulled the cellar door shut tight behind them.

She set the lamp on the crate at the foot of the stairs, and truck the match by feel. The glow was too sharp for a second against the darkness, it settled as she lit the lamp and brought the glass down over it. Pulling a chair over to the middle of the room, she stepped up and hung it on the hook perpendicular to the rafter, so the light pooled out across the cellar, it rocked back and forth a little, settling, as she climbed back down. Kit had sat down one of the trunks covered with a rough blanket, Sam found her spot, on a crate of something, and flicked open the book she'd carried down with her. The light was dull, but enough to read, and might as well do something to pass the time. Secret aerial photos, the loyalty of friendships, and set up in the Downs was more fun, excitement and familiar at once. If only she could work out exactly where 'Under' would be.

---

She quickly covered the rock back with the cloth, putting out the curl of steam and placing it back in it’s place. The glow from the thread was growing, the fire consuming the thread until it neared the wax. And with that, the light from the candle reached out and cast a dim orange glow to the small room.

Lyra exhaled and turned back to her child, reaching over the tall branches surrounding the nest and lifting the little one, bringing her close. Her black hair already had greying streaks, a sign that she would take after her father’s silver hair upon maturity. Lyra distantly wondered what other pieces of him the little one would take after.

The light of the candle had begun to dismiss the shades of night, the colors exposing the grain of the wood floor at her feet, and Lyra began to slowly move in a dance. Her wings flitted as she moved, remembering briefly the last time she’d danced among the light of a candle.

By the time she finished, the cries had stopped. Lyra glanced down. The eyes were open, silver. Like his. The light exposed so many of his features on her little face already, and Lyra could tell that the likeness would only grow.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as the little one let out a bubbling start of another cry, and Lyra sighed. Brushed a bit of hair from her face. “It’s alright,” she murmured. “I miss him, too.”