When she is alone in her quarters, after Alphinaud has excused himself for the evening, after the promise of needlework or somesuch craft has lost its appeal for the day, she gazes out of her window. Watching the moon, she hopes that her mind could echo its clarity, could be wiped clean of all of its impurities; the dark stains of anger, regret, grief. Other times, the moon is a mirror, and within it she is free to look back upon all that she has done — for better or for worse.

Despite what she may feel, ‘tis not always for the worse.

An impromptu stay at Camp Dragonhead, that was all it was. A morning of following a hunt mark’s trail, a favor to House Haillenarte, and an afternoon of hunting the Ornery Karakul for their fleece and skin had left her exhausted, she told herself — even her prodigious aether reserves could not last her one more teleport, surely.

She carefully hog-ties the slain Karakul, slings about four of them in total over both shoulders, and treks to the camp. Eithne tells the guards that the fort can eat plenty tonight, should they be so kind as to leave the fleece and skin aside for her, and it doesn’t take long for the Knight Commander to brave the cold to greet her once the news breaks. The light from his smile could have powered her for a thousand summers, she thinks, as he beams at her in his usual way.

“To what do I owe this great honor to, my friend?” She sees his hands raised in joyous greeting, wonders if she would ever know how it felt to be held by them instead.

“I brought gifts for you and yours,” Eithne motions to the hog-tied Karakuls in his men’s hands, “Today’s bounty is too much for me, and I doubt House Fortemps has any need for it either.”

Haurchefant laughs, and for a moment she swears the wind warms with the sound of it.

That night they feast on the hearty stew, Karakul’s gamey meat made pliant and flavorful amidst the popotos and carrots, and the whole camp seems to come alive with it. They cheer in her name, Haurchefant raising his tankard beside her, and she feels a warmth blooming in her chest, spreading up and across her cheeks.

When dinner has finished, and the hush of sleep falls across the camp, when it is just the two of them before the fire, he tells her about his day, and she lets him coax her own adventures out of her lips as well. He leans in close when she speaks, until she feels the summer sky-blue of his eyes overtaking her every thought, quieting them until this moment—this warmth, this gentleness—is all that remains.

“Tell me, my friend,” Hushed, unnaturally quiet, his voice sounds, and yet filled with such tenderness. “Do you know how to dance?”

She shakes her head, as she struggles to maintain eye contact with him against the mounting pressure of his gaze.

Before she knows it, she is swept away into his arms, her hand in his, calloused and yet so warm, enough to sear the memory into the very marrow of her bones. There is a mirth in his rumbling chuckle, as her ears flick in surprise, his free hand coming to sit firm on her waist. Myriad emotions stir within her, as she feels the butterflies in her stomach flutter at the sensation—the intimacy altogether new, yet not unpleasant. He tells her of his lessons, the balls for which he prepared yet never received the invitations for, that he had never regretted learning despite it.

“Artoriel,” the same comes out with a certain fondness, “is far better than I at it, yet I dare dream that this humble knight’s sprightly step could satisfy our Warrior of Light.”

“I-I could think of no one else who could.” And it is true.

He explains the basics, enough to follow his motions, avoid stepping on his toes, and soon they are swaying before the fire. He hums along, as she furrows her brows in concentration, the distance between the two growing closer, their rhythm growing slower. The hum turns into a tune turns into a song, and the lyrics find a home in her memories, even when the warmth faded from their hands, even when there was no longer anyone who would ever sing them to her again.

And when I cannot bear the pain ♪

I'll look up to the sky and pray ♪

At the time, she remembers the growing nervousness, the warmth in her cheeks as she feared someone would hear them, would intrude and bear witness— to what? Now all she wishes was that they, that anyone, would have seen them, so that a memory of their love existed beyond her, beyond those fleeting moments.

That though our night is over ♪

you shall always remain ♪

She wishes she would have let him sing forever, that they had danced ‘til the dawn.

Forever my treasure, my star ♪