#c3e114 coda

[ladynearthelake]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Yep, this is just where we're at now, huh?

Lieve'tel and Cerkonos, after the battle:

Lieve’tel quietly excuses herself once Vox Machina is settle at Whitestone. She has no illusions that she’ll be missed. She hands off the arcane relic to Lord De Rolo and ducks out of the chamber. She can still feel the resentment in the Tempest’s gaze as she glides away. She can’t blame Keyleth. She understands. But she can do nothing about the natural order of things. Death gives life meaning, but that is little comfort to those still grieving. Even after all this time.

As she descends the steps, she reaches her hand out, letting the small, silver bell sway with the movement. She closes her eyes and cast a locating spell. Like all in her order, Lieve’tel can usually find her way to the nearest cemetery, but she wants to be sure. She’s not sure how long she’ll be welcome here, and it would only be right to pay her respects.

Mr. Bell was a sweet man, pompous and full of himself, but kind in a natural way that reminded Lieve of her own, long passed family. She enjoyed the time they spent together. He wasn’t in Vasselheim often, but he always came to call when he if he was. He was ruled by the call to adventure, and last she saw him, he had mentioned a new prospect in Jrusar. She wished him well with a kiss to the cheek when he left.

Part of her knew she wouldn’t see him again. Even in her position, she isn’t inoculated against the pain of grief.

The dream of his final moments--and her name being the last on his lips-- ached for weeks.

But death is a part of life, and Lieve’tel knows this better than most.

She smiles at the small carving of Bertrand on the large clock tower she passes. Even through her gloves, she can feel to coldness of the stone.

She takes the long way around, her instincts drawing her to a small path that winds through the woods outside the city walls. The woods are peaceful; a stark contrast to the madness she just witnessed. She’s still battered and sore, but a quick rest will sort that out.

Snowdrops carpet the path she walks, and she smiles. She lets some of the formality of her presentation fall away. Her shoulders fall and her head falls forward. Perhaps she’s more tired than she thought. But soon enough, Lieve’tel emerges into the Greyfield. The headstones are white and clearly well tended. It’s a comfort to see that the dead are not forgotten here. She tugs on the strings of her spell, and lets them pull her towards one of the newer headstones. It’s imperceptibly whiter than the rest, but she manages to locate it.

“Hello, Mr Bell,” she says as she slowly gets to her knees. She sits heavily on her heels and begins to tug at the fingers of her gauntlets. “It pleases me that you’ve been so well attended to.”

She tosses her gloves carelessly beside her, and reaches out a hand to run over the headstone. She traces the engraved epitaph, forcing down the stab of grief when she remembers the touch of his knobby knuckles against her cheek. Her other she buries in the still loose topsoil. When she flexes her hand, she remembers the last time she ran her fingers through his gray chest hair and the way the light from the fireplace cast his euphoric smile in sharp contrast to the shadow.

A tear rolls down her porcelain cheek. She leans forward so it might fall into the soil.

She imagines him walking in the comfort of the Matron’s shadow, and that soothes the ache a bit. The thread of her existence will be long, but she will see him again when it is finally her time to rest.

She sits there for a bit, resting and healing, before she catches a familiar scent on the wind. It’s fresh and earthy, like the forest floor after a cleansing fire. New threads of life are so eager to reach for the sky now that the way is cleared. She smiles to herself, rousing from her mediation.

“Flamespeaker,” she says without turning around.

His steps are nearly silent, but she can feel the faint vibration in the ground. He stops just behind her, and when she turns to look at him over her shoulder, he’s frozen in place. It’s very fetching how wrong footed he is around her. She moves to push herself up, but falters. He’s at her side in an instant, clearly trying to find something to say. His hands are invitingly warm.

“Thank you.”

“I…I did not mean to presume,” Cerkonos says, moving away from her after he seems sure she won’t fall, “If you wanted to be alone, I can—”

Lieve’tel shakes her head. “No, I only wanted a moment to visit.” She grabs hold of his wrist before he can pull fully away and wraps her arm around his. Whatever tension she’s still holding from the fight releases at the touch of his flame. “I am still a bit unsteady, if you don’t mind.”

They stand there for a moment, looking at each other. He doesn’t seem to have any lingering hurts from the battle, but she before she can ask if he needs a bit of healing, she feels the flame of his magic wash over her. The relief of it nearly brings tears to her eyes, but Lieve’tel is very well schooled in keeping her emotions hidden. She only leans into him, leeching what she can of his fire.

He ducks his head as she smiles knowingly at him. “The battle was hard, and you had been hurt,” he mumbles.

She tilts his chin up with the tip of her finger. “Thank you, Cerkonos. I wonder if I could impose upon you for an escort back to Vasselheim? Vox Machina needs their time to rest and recover, but the battle is far from over.”

“Oh��yes. I should return as well.” Cerkonos looks back toward the castle towering over them. “Should we tell them?”

Lieve’tel thinks of the looks on the Tempest’s and Lady De Rolo’s faces when they saw the Champion again and shakes her head. “No, let them have the evening. There will be much to do tomorrow.”

He nods and gestures towards a nearby tree. They pass through the tree side by side, stepping out into the chilly air of the Dawn City. A light flurry of snow blankets the Abundant Terrace as they step out of the Birthheart.

“May I take you back to the Duskmeadow?” Cerkonos asks, blushing handsomely.

“That is quite the trek from here, Flamespeaker. I understand you have accommodations here?”

His gaze jerks back to hers.

“This could be the eve of the end of the world, Cerkonos. I would rather not be alone.”

His face flushes redder than Ruidus, but he nods quickly. Lieve’tel grips his arm a bit tighter and gives him a slight nod. He guides her through the flaps of his tent and with a gesture gets a fire burning in the fire pit at the center of the space. She asks him to help her remove her cape and armor before she pulls out the pins holding her hair in place. She’s still in her underclothes, and stops him from undressing any further. She pulls him to the bed and gently pushes him down. She lets him settle before resting her head against his shoulder. Her hand rests just over his heart. He is warm and so very alive. He lets his hand settle just above her hip as he slowly lets himself relax.

Lieve’tel wants to say something, a promise for the uncertain future, something comforting, but exhaustion overwhelms her. She blinks sleepily, noting the book at his bedside and the bookmark set a few pages from the end.

“Will you read to me?” she asks.

“O-of course,” he says. He reaches over and finds his place. She barely registers the words, but lets the vibration of his chest carry her to sleep. There’s much to do in the morning.