The Spirit Endures

Or; The Ysmirid

Chapter 1 - Career Opportunities

The Dragonborn was rather plain, Lydia decided, and certainly short compared to the crowd of Nords that parted before him.

He wasn't what most of them were expecting. He wasn't taller than a High Elf, he didn't look stronger than an Orc, his hair wasn't as golden as the fields of wheat outside the walls of Whiterun, and his eyes weren't as blue as the sky above the Throat of the World.

His skin was a dark tan (perhaps he had some Redguard ancestry?), and his short, braided hair was a healthy shade of brown. The Dragonborn was well shorter than her, maybe by a couple of inches, and he even seemed less muscular than her, having more of a stocky build beneath his ratty leather lamellar. His shifty, dark eyes glanced around the Great Hall with the wariness of a wild dog.

'And perhaps it's warranted…' Lydia thought to herself as she stared at the black, concentric lines that were tattooed onto his face. 'Reachmen aren't particularly loved on any inch of Skyrim's soil, even the Reach.'

The court seemed to share the Dragonborn's wariness but they weren't as hostile as they could've been had he been a High Elf. Whiterun wasn't a Stormcloak stronghold but that didn't stop its citizens from resenting the elves from Summerset, with their golden armor and haughty, angular looks.

"So, this is to be my thane…" Lydia murmured to herself with a frown as she lost sight of his form as he crossed the massive firepit at the center of the hall.

A certain something was worming its way into her gut. A Reachman Dragonborn. The Civil War. The Thalmor… Trouble was coming to Skyrim. Trouble was coming to her home. It had already arrived: bandit attacks were on the rise, the Battle-Borns and Gray-Manes were a barrel of Honningbrew Mead away from shedding blood, and the lower districts were becoming more discontent by the day.

"Is there a problem, housecarl?" a stern, familiar voice asked from behind her, almost sending her leaping out of her boots in surprise.

"No, Commander Caius." she replied, swallowing a curse as she turned to address her former leader, "I'm just… surprised at his appearance. Sir."

"If you have a problem with his race, then you'll just have to stow it." said Caius, stepping forward beside her with his arms folded, "The Jarl is putting his trust in you with this assignment, the hold is in a precarious position right now and we can't risk our new Thane being antagonized by his own Housecarl."

"Well, Commander, I've served you all these years, haven't I? Irileth as well." Lydia asked, craning her neck to get a better view of the man that was now kneeling before her Jarl.

The commander snorted before continuing in his typical sardonic tone, "I wouldn't call it 'serving', even if you've done an excellent job at it."

Lydia huffed out a quiet laugh, palming the pommel of her sword as the crowd's chatter reached a low hum as the ceremony began. Usually someone being named Thane was a rather informal affair so she was sure that the Jarl was aiming to make a political statement with these frivolities.

Whiterun Hold was under the protection of the Dragonborn, he was saying, and do with that what you will.

In honor of slaying the dragon that had assaulted the Western Watchtower and attacked citizens of the Hold, Faolan of Markarth was named Thane of Whiterun Hold, thus joining the vaunted company of the Jarl's brute brother, Hrongar, and the never-present Thane of Rorikstead. A mustard-colored cloak was draped across his shoulders as he swore his vows before the Jarl and his court. The morning sun pierced the smoke that had gathered at the ceiling of the Great Hall of Dragonsreach and shone down upon their new Thane. The surrounding crowd exploded into applause and cheers-even the Gray-Manes had shed their surly grumbling at the prospect of the legendary Dragonborn guarding the Hold against dragons.

Lydia felt a bit of bile bite at the back of her throat as Jarl Balgruuf grasped his new Thane's and raised it above his head; she couldn't help but notice how short the Reachman looked next to her liege. How young and unsure he looked compared to the Great War veteran standing beside him. Maybe the guards at the watchtower had gotten it wrong, there was no way someone like him could have slain one of the first dragons seen in… well, millennia.

"Divines guide him." Commander Caius murmured with a strange look on his face, before turning away from the spectacle and towards her. "Divines guide you, Lydia."

"As you say." she managed to spit out between her grit teeth, watching as the Jarl and the Dragonborn exchanged a few terse words before clasping each other's forearms and descending into the crowd.

She felt the Commander's hand clasp her shoulder, "It's a new age… you know that, don't you, Lydia? The Jarl has a Dark Elf for a Housecarl and an Imperial advising him on how to spend his coin. The age of the Dragonborn of legend has passed, and only time will tell if this one will step up to the challenge. If he will be willing to step up to the challenge."

Lydia said nothing. The tension in her jaw slowly bled away.

Caius patted her shoulder as he moved to join the crowd, "It was an honor defending the Hold with you, Housecarl. Now I'm afraid you're moving on to bigger and better things. The stuff of legends."

She watched as his armor melted into the furs and fine, colorful cloths of the nobility. A sober sensation settled onto her being and her stomach became still as she set her shield down by her feet and leaned against an ornate, wooden pillar. Truth be told, she hadn't done much to defend the Hold since she had joined the guards at the age of sixteen. Other than the occasional bandit raid and her solitary patrols across the plains atop Jeek, she had spent her days either beating on a straw dummy or her fellow guardsmen. But still, Lydia liked to think that she was one of the Hold's finest warriors besides perhaps Irileth or one of the Companions.

Even if she couldn't count on the Dragonborn, she could at least count on herself.

Lydia sighed and patted the pommel of her sword as she recited what she was to say to her Thane. However, as seconds turned into minutes, her mind drifted away as the droning of the crowd became a dull buzz in the back of her mind. Her parents already knew of her new title, she had woken them up before the sun had risen only a half hour after she had been dragged out of her bed in the barracks by Caius and Irileth. She had her own instructions from her parents, ones Lydia suspected came before they had heard the rumors that the Dragonborn was some bloodthirsty Forsworn savage. They expected their daughter to bring the Thane to their home for a traditional Nordic meal with a side of political badgering and not-so-subtle reminders of what they thought of 'new faces' moving into their city. Lydia wondered if a bowl of her mom's beef stew and an apple pie from the Breton bakery down the way would compare to whatever was served in Markarth.

"Dumpling, dear? Soren's done some fine work today." asked a kindly voice.

Lydia's mouth watered as she basked in the smell of the dumplings filled with… yes, filled with chicken and garlic and some other combination of vegetable. Gerda, one of Dragonsreach's maids, smiled and beckoned Lydia forward with a slight motion of the wooden tray. She followed one of the first pieces of advice she got as a trainee-never turn down free food. She took one off the tray. It was almost too hot to hold.

"Take another one. I hear all those Greybeards eat is salted fish. No dumplings up there for you, dear. Better eat up while you still can." said the maid. The Jarl's favorite maid if rumors were to be believed. Hard not to see why.

"Make sure you save some for me." a thick, male brogue called out from behind her, "Haven't eaten since the night before-I'm starving."

'A courtier that hasn't been busy stuffing his face. That's rare.' Lydia thought with a snort as she reveled in the taste of the savory filling.

"Of course, my Thane, take as much as you'd like!"

Lydia choked on a particularly large chunk of chicken. 'Damn it!'

"Thank you… Gerda, was it?" said the Dragonborn-her Thane-as his shaking hand reached past her towards the tray.

"Yes, my Thane."

"Er, right. Well, Gerda, you can call me by my name if you'd like. Faolan."

"Excuse me." Lydia interrupted, turning to face him. Up close, his tattoos looked more intricate with patterns interwoven into the black lines of his tattoos. His skin seemed paler up close as well, though his voice remained unwavering. She supposed that he was nervous, probably from the crowd, which might explain how damn young he looked.

"Yeah? Can I help you?" he said-but only after taking the time to swallow his third dumpling and wipe his mouth clean of crumbs and grease. Not very savage of the Reachman.

Lydia dusted the crumbs off her fingertips before bowing "The Jarl has appointed me to be your housecarl." she paused, "My name is Lydia. It's an honor to serve you."

"Right, Lydia…" he drawled, his lips, black from the tattoo, forming into a smirk at her admittedly curt introduction. He continued, "So you're a housecarl… like Irileth?"

They both nodded at Gerda (though Faolan thanked her as well) as she made her leave, joining the crowd at the tables set up by the firepit.

"Yes. Much like Irileth and our Jarl, I'm sworn to your service. I'll guard you, and all that you own, with my life." recited Lydia, following the newly-minted Thane as he ambled towards Dragonreach's massive doors.

"My property, huh?" Faolan murmured to himself, rubbing his chin before looking back at her, "So… you as good as Irileth?"

"Well I can't use magic like she can but I reckon that I'm the best fighter Whiterun has to offer." Lydia couldn't help but brag, puffing out her chest. "My Thane."

Her Thane-Faolan, as he liked to be called-stopped, turning to regard her with narrowed eyes. His youthful features seemed to have more color to them but he didn't necessarily seem more comfortable. His shoulders were drawn together-tight, like his muscles might snap at any moment from how taut they were.

"You're the best fighter Whiterun has to offer. And Balgruuf has assigned you to me." Jarl Balgruuf, she wanted to correct him. "Interesting."

Lydia didn't know how to respond to that, so she didn't. He stared at her for another moment before turning back towards the keep's entrance.

"Come on." he called out, his ambling pace turning more rapid.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her armor clinking as she followed him.

He tugged on the metal handles of the door, letting a brisk wind invade the legendary keep's halls along with the bright rays of the late morning sun. A smile made its way onto his face. The first one she had seen on him since she first observed him in the Great Hall.

"Shopping!"

There he was.

A bloody aristocrat.

A bloody aristocrat serving the Nord, at that.

His da would've skinned him alive if he knew what Faolan was doing. Though he'd likely be shrewd enough to sus out the value of having a bloody Dragonborn by his side in whatever hole they put him in. Likely Cidnah with the luck they had.

As Faolan stared into the papery skin of the onion, squeezing it slightly to test its freshness, he recalled the time he told his da he was going to join the Legion. Free clothes, free food, a regular wage, and benefits that could be ensured for him and his family should he retire or die. It was logical for him, a boy growing up in the Side, to want more than a damp cave to live in and bread with charcoal mixed into it to eat.

Still, his father slapped him.

Blood wasn't drawn but it left a mark which none had dared to question. Many had received worse from the foremans.

Now his father, Glam, wasn't a cruel man. In fact, that was the only time Faolan could remember his father raising a hand towards him. But, as logical as the notion of joining the Legion was for the son of a poor smelter worker, it was just as foolish due to the fact that his father was a member of the Forsworn who had taught his son the proper way.

Their meals, as meagre as they were, only began after they offered a prayer to Mehrunes Dagon and a toast to their king, Madanach. Though the latter occurred less frequently as the years dragged on without so much as a word from their imprisoned ruler. To him, and a majority of their people, serving in the Legion meant serving their oppressors. Joining the city guard meant serving the Nord, also their oppressors.

So, when Hadvar asked if Faolon would be joining him on his journey back to Solitude after the horrors at Helgen, Faolan laughed in his face, though they still shook hands when all was said and done.

And now Foalan was a Thane. Whatever that really meant.

And he had a housecarl. A pretty one with a bad attitude. Faolan still wasn't sure if she was disdainful towards Reachmen in general, or just him as an individual.

"Is the onion to your liking?" asked Carlotta Valentia, the widow who ran a produce stand in Whiterun's market.

Faolan sighed, "Yes. My apologies, I was lost in thought there for a second."

Carlotta offered him a sympathetic smile, "It must be hard, becoming Thane on such short notice. Take all the time you need. Most people are sleeping off hangovers from last night's celebrations."

Faolan smiled in return. He liked Carlotta. Imperial she might be, but she was an honest, kind woman, and he could respect her devotion to her daughter, Mila. He had even gone as far as to knock out one of Mikael's teeth for her. He would've preferred to have talked down the annoying bard instead, but the look of disdain on the man's face after he saw Faolan's markings made him lose his patience. At least he could say he had the same smile as the Dragonborn!

"Have you ever been outside of Whiterun, Lydia?" Faolan finally decided to address his shadow. If she was to guard him while he was sleeping, he'd rather develop some form of rapport rather than let her stew on whatever type of resentment was building up.

He heard her sigh, "I haven't been outside the hold, my Thane, but I was tasked to patrol the plains when I was a guard."

"Huh. So, do you know how much food we'll need to make it to Ivarstead without having to eat our boots?" he asked, turning to regard her with what he hoped wasn't too critical of an expression.

She had medium-length dark brown-almost black-hair, narrow green eyes, and a slightly annoyed expression on her face that marred her otherwise austere sort of beauty. Of course, she also wore a polished suit of steel armor, forged in the Nordic style where her arms were exposed. Faolan supposed that that was their way of bragging about their supposed natural resistance to the cold.

Lydia pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in thought, "Usually I'd say a journey to Ivarstead would last around three days atop a steed but there's a nip in the air so I'd also expect there to be some bad weather. I reckon we should buy enough to last us five days and we can forage if it lasts any longer than that."

Faolan blinked, then turned to Carlotta, "Alright then, we'll take as many onions and bundles of garlic as we can carry!"

He turned back to his housecarl and offered her a thumb's up, she replied with a raised eyebrow and a small, confused smile.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's' just… I take it you like onions and garlic, my Thane?"

"Lydia, everything goes with onions and garlic." he declared, "Everything. There's nothing like them cooking together in a pan, you'll see. Why? What did they feed you when you were a guard?"

Lydia hummed, her eyes darting about the open-air market, "Well they didn't feed us much when we were out in the plains. They'd just send us on our way with some bread and cheese. The Jarl did allow us to hunt while we were out there so it'd be that and maybe a fresh hare for dinner."

Faolan felt himself frown and scoffed, "Right. I forgot that's how it worked. The Jarl owns all the wild land in the hold, and only he or his servants can hunt on it."

Lydia's eyes darted about, perhaps she was afraid that someone had heard the new Thane criticize his liege on public, "Is that not how it works in the Reach?"

He barked out a laugh, startling Carlotta out of her interest in their conversation, "Ha! Igmund wishes he owned the Reach! If it's not a mine it's controlled by the Forsworn. From what I hear, they've been giving his boys and the Silver-Blood's a licking in the hills. Not that I would know much about that, I'm just a wee lad from the Side. Or rather, a wee Thane from the Side now."

Lydia seemed a bit uncomfortable at whatever implication she gleaned from that statement, shifting in her steel armor that had previously seemed as smooth as silk the way she wore it. Faolan smiled, it always brought him a bit of joy to see a Nord uncomfortable at the mention of his fellow tribesman. Most could outright call them savages, but she would have to grin and bear it due to his status.

She cleared her throat, "Well… speaking of food, there's something I'd like to talk to you about."

"Oh?" asked Faolan, deciding to take pity on her and follow the shift in conversation as he stuffed the foodstuffs into a saddlebag, "What is it?"

Lydia scratched the back of her neck and looked to the side before meeting his eyes, "My parents would like to meet you. They've invited you over to our home for dinner."

He snorted, "What am I? Your suitor?"

"You wish…" he could hear her mutter before she raised her voice, "It's nothing like that. I imagine they'd just like to meet the legendary Dragonborn-"the Reachman snorted again-"Will you be able to come over tonight? We are setting out tomorrow after all."

"If there's anything I've learned in life, it's to never turn down a free meal." he said with a solemn hand on his chest, "Where and when?"

Lydia looked up at the sky, squinting and shielding her eyes with a gauntlet-clad forearm. "It's just past midday now… I reckon my mother will be done with cooking a bit after sunset."

Faolan looked up at the sky as well, frowning. The days had been getting shorter ever since he had crossed the Pale Path. He doubted he would enjoy wandering Skyrim during its winter even if his new, ugly cloak was enchanted to resist the cold.

"I should warn you…" he turned to look at his Housecarl, who was busy avoiding eye contact, "Well my dad can be very, er, passionate when it comes to the issues of the day."

"Sounds fun." Faolan remarked. He grabbed the basket that Carlotta had filled, and placed a couple of septims onto the stall's table. Perhaps a few more than necessary.

He heard Lydia sigh as they turned away from the stalls that dotted Whiterun's large marketplace, "I doubt you would say that if you knew what he's like."

"Ah come on now, he can't be that bad. He's your father after all, and you seem pretty swell." he complimented her, elbowing her in her armored side.

She snorted, smirking slightly before fixing her face back into its previous neutral posture, "Well we've lived next to the Gray-Mane's our entire life. He works for them too, ever since he got back from the War."

The War of course was referring to the so-called Great War. A war so great that even some of his brothers and sisters had fought abroad for the Legion-even with the prospect of a proper rebellion at home.

"Well we can't all choose who we work for in this economy. And the Gray-Mane's can't be worse than those Battleborn pricks." he countered.

"My Thane. He reads The Stormcrown Observer."

Faolan stopped in his tracks as his mind scrambled to figure out whatever that meant.

Wait.

"You're telling me he reads Ulfric's rag? The one with more illustrations than paragraphs."

Lydia nodded. Faolan exploded into a hysterical fit of laughter. He still remembered the first time he found a copy of the Observer in a seedy tavern in a dark corner of Bruma. On the front page was a call for all nord warriors and shieldmaidens to return home to defend their homeland from the oppression of the Empire. Below it was an illustration of Ulfric Stormcloak himself leading a charge with his waraxe brandished and the gods of the Nordic pantheon smiling down upon him. In other words it contained only the most mind-numbing of drivel.

Once he calmed down with a few deep breaths he turned to face his Housecarl who seemed more than a bit embarrassed. "This will be fun!"

"So the Dragonborn's a bloody witchman, eh?" her father asked with a petulant tone belied by the fact that he was a large, bearded Nord, leaning back into his wooden chair at the head of the table.

Lydia heard her mom sigh and she barely held one back herself. After her Thane had nearly cackled himself to unconsciousness she made it her sole mission that afternoon to preemptively nip whatever argument might arise in the bud. She had spent what felt like an hour begging Faolan (whom she was beginning to suspect was perhaps was a bit sympathetic to the Madmen of the Reach) not to rise to her father's bait before he had finally relented after finding what was apparently a rare book called The Remanada.

When he saw Lydia's confused expression, he offered her a smile, one that was missing one of its front teeth. It was a troublemaker's smile, but one that was charming nonetheless. He told Lydia that his father sometimes had spent money on books rather than on dinner, and that his father always wanted to read the legend of Reman's birth. Lydia thought that was rather silly but the sad smile on her Thane's face stopped whatever smartass remark was waiting to spout from her mouth in its tracks. She instead admitted that she was afraid that it might be the last time that she would be able to see her parents, something she didn't want ruined even if the responsibility fell on her father. He relented after that.

Lydia watched as Faolan dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a cloth. The lines on his marked brow made it seem like he was preparing a retort like how a warrior might sharpen her blade on the eve of battle. She felt her stomach drop.

He cleared his throat of the thick broth and spoke, "I suppose so."

Lydia's father harrumphed before returning to scooping portions of the stew with chunks of his fresh bread. Henrik was a rather bitter man, she had to admit, and that no doubt came from the leg he lost during the Great War. Lydia had several lucid memories of his proud smile turning into hateful glares at something in the distance whenever he told her war stories by the fire.

"So the word around town is that you'll be heading to High Hrothgar… that must be what that racket in the morning was all about." her mother prodded, eager to dispel the awkward silence that weighed on the unlikely group.

Lydia's mother, on the other hand, was a kind woman, if a bit too traditional. Ever-patient, Agata had weathered the storms of her husband's sullenness and her daughter's precociousness with an admirable, yet weary smile. She didn't like to talk about her life before she came to Skyrim, what little Lydia knew was that her mother fled Cyrodiil during the Great War. When prodded, the Nord woman would simply say that she was glad to finally be home, though the way her eyes would grow moist with unshed tears told a different story.

"Aye, we'll be starting our travels tomorrow. I've been summoned, apparently. Thankfully, Bal-the Jarl was charitable enough to gift me a horse from his own stables for whatever comes next." said the Dragonborn, wiping his hands on a tablecloth.

"High Hrothgar… my father made the pilgrimage up there once. Before I was born, of course. The follies of youth, I was told."

"You never told me that." Lydia interjected, shooting her mother a questioning glance.

"Oh yes, your grandfather traveled there all the way from Chorrol. Said a Nord doesn't know cold until he goes up the Seven Thousand Steps. As for why I haven't told you…" her mother trailed off, the grip on her spoon becoming tighter.

"I've been to Chorrol." Faolan stepped in, sensing the mood dipping, "Beautiful city. It's recovered nicely from what I've heard from the locals. Had my first glass of Colovian Brandy there."

Agata shot the Thane a grateful smile, brought out of her melancholic reverie. Lydia smiled. Her Thane had some questionable views, to say the least, and could be ornery at times but he seemed to be a kind man.

They were interrupted by the sound of the bottom of a bottle impacting a wooden table harshly.

"We don't need your sympathies, Reachman." her father growled.

Faolan frowned and turned to regard the bearded man, "Pardon?"

"I said we don't need your sympathy and we don't need your false manners neither." he spat out.

"Dear, why don't-"

"No! While cities like Chorrol were laid to waste and good Nord soldiers were slaughtered by the Thalmor, where were his people?" Henrik thundered, jabbing a finger at her Thane, "They weren't joining the fight! They planted a dagger in our back and stole the Reach from us! And now they're stealing our damned heroes from us too."

"Father! This is your Thane you're speaking to! Mind your tongue!"

Her father ignored her, though, and kept his baleful glare centered on Faolan.

"What's the matter, witchman? Too craven to stand up for yourself?"

She turned to look at her Thane. His face was oddly calm as he leaned back into his chair and stared back into Henrik's eyes. He turned to her and let out a tiny sigh.

'Damn it.' Lydia thought as she buried her head in her hands.

"We stole the Reach. We stole the Reach from you…" Faolan repeated to himself, sounding out the words as if he could hardly believe that they had been uttered. "How can we steal something that belongs to us? Is a slave to be punished for breaking his chains? I don't understand."

"Slaves?" her father demanded.

"Yes, slaves. Or were you unaware of the fact that both the Empire and your dear Ulfric used innocent Reachmen as slaves to line their pockets with silver? Does Cidnah Mine ring a bell in that thick head of yours?" grounded out Faolan, leaning forward in his chair as he glared at her father.

"Slaves?" Henrik barked out again, "They're not fucking slaves! They're criminals! Murderers, thieves, necromancers! Serving time for their crimes against the people of Skyrim! A mercy compared to the fate they deserved!"

The Dragonborn laughed at that, a more poisonous sound than the joyful cackles from hours ago. Lydia turned to look at her mother, begging her to rein in her father before the argument turned into something uglier. But she too was glaring at Faolan, seeing his views straying closer and closer to those of the Forsworn, a group almost as reviled as the Thalmor for those in western Skyrim.

"You dare to call us murderers?" asked the Reachman, his voice becoming louder with every word, "Tell that to my cousins who were younger than ten years old when they were butchered by Ulfric and Igmund's militia. Tell that to my uncle who died of starvation under their occupation. Tell that to my da, who's working himself to death in Cidnah Mine."

Lydia couldn't help but feel a little sympathy work its way deep into her gut and she could see by the way her mother looked down at her plate, she felt the same.

Her father was silent for a few seconds and Lydia thought that perhaps their argument would come to an end with that…

But her father was nothing if not a stubborn man.

"It was a war." he said with a shrug, "It is a war. And war isn't pretty."

Faolan sighed and pushed his bowl forward, "You know… most people would probably be sympathetic to the cause of the Stormcloaks if Nords weren't such pricks." he turned towards her mother and nodded, "Thank you for the dinner, I haven't had a homecooked meal in years, it's a shame we weren't able to enjoy dessert."

He pushed his chair outwards from the table, creating a harsh scraping sound that made her wince. Faolan grabbed his cloak and turned towards Lydia, "I'll see you at the stables tomorrow morning. If you're still willing to join me, that is."

The table remained silent as the Dragonborn left their house, the only sounds emanating throughout the room being the door opening and closing as well as the rain impacting against the roof.

"You're still planning on going with the witchman?" her father asked after a few moments.

Lydia opened her mouth to respond but closed it a second later. Part of what it meant to be a Nord was doing the honorable and dutiful thing. For all her life she did her duty as a Nord-serving the Jarl and the Hold faithfully for several years and honing her skills as a warrior. To serve a man that seemed to resent the Nords and their traditions, would that truly be more honorable than staying home, perhaps even joining the Companions if the Jarl removed her from his service?

She swallowed, hoping to make the knot in her chest disappear before speaking, "I am."

Lydia's father frowned. He too understood what it meant to be a Nord, but he also loved his daughter dearly-Lydia knew that for certain.

"You'll always have a home to return to. I don't care if he's the Thane or the Dragonborn, don't think for a second that we'll ever think less of you if you return home instead of following that savage." Henrik said, reaching a calloused hand across the table towards his daughter.

Lydia frowned at his choice of words but placed her hand in his anyways, and a beat later her mother joined in. They stayed that way for a few moments, listening to the crackling of the fire and the impact of the rain. Each of them, in their own way, struggled to find a way to come to terms with a future that seemed so dark and uncertain.

Agata took a shuddering breath before standing from her seat, "Well enough of that. How about some pie?"