"How long before the passing?" Rhea asked, and the cool water slipping down Lyra's throat turned to ice. She squeezed the cup tighter before reminding herself to release it. Carefully, she set it down and shook her head.

"I do not know," Lyra said, letting the words hover in the air between them until the draw of Rhea's brows smoothed out with acceptance. She wished she could feel a similar measure of comfort in those words when it was the lack of knowing which haunted her. 

She drew her hands into her lap, and looked out the window toward the night sky speckled with stars. If she focused hard enough, she knew their weeping would rain down from the heavens and shower her with their earthly wishes. But she acknowledged them nonetheless, sharing in their hope though she knew nothing would come from it. For once, she was grateful the crystal's radiance was not within her sight. 

"That we have lived this long beneath his care is a blessing of itself," she stated, unsure whether the words were for herself or Rhea. Her dearest friend, while capable and willing to listen to her woes, had little interest in the spirits or the land after all. Yet, she couldn't stop speaking as her lips formed the words, "After grandmother…"

Flashes of memories sprung to life behind her eyes —

A woman dressed in the plate armor of a warrior filled the space within her mind, taller and grander than she may have been in life. The light surrounding her cast shadows far beyond, bright enough to throw her into silhouette, but when she turned as if knowing she was being watched,  Lyra knew those eyes far too well. 

When recognition returned to her, Lyra blinked rapidly then jerked her chin forward while blurting out frantically,  "I apologize."

Rhea greeted her panic with ease. "There's no need," she said, "Our pasts are so closely intertwined, they may as well be one."

Lyra swallowed thickly, managing a laugh though it rung hollow to her ears, "A poetic way of saying you cannot be rid of me."

"Your words, not mine," said Rhea as she took a sip from her cup, seeming to put the matter to rest.

Lyra glanced down at her own, cradling the sides of it between her hands as she looked into the dark depths. Her reflection could only be half-seen within the rippling pool of water and the eyes meeting hers darkened with contempt. She closed them, unwilling to meet her weakness as she brought the cup to her lips for another drink.

When the dishes were cleaned and Lyra managed to convince Rhea to keep the leftovers from their meals, she'd set off to the front door with basket in hand. Heavy footfalls telling of Rhea's following set Lyra's heart aflutter. She gave a puff of laughter when Rhea reached around her to open the door, stepping out of the way as to allow Lyra to embrace the night's coolness. In the shade of the stables, Lyra spied Ulysses making himself at home on the bed of turned straw. She made a note in the back of her mind to tell Damiano that his hard labor hadn't gone unnoticed.

Should his time under their mother's tutelage proven difficult in keeping his spirits, a bit of good news would be just what he needed. Pivoting on her foot, Lyra turned and walked backwards onto the porch with her eyes lingering on the shadows cutting across Rhea's face. Lyra could tell little from the set of her mouth, but the depth within her sepia-colored eyes spoke of a wealth of things that'd gone unspoken. There were years between their last meeting; a single night of food and tearful embraces could not hope to bridge such a gap effortlessly. 

"Lyra," called Rhea, soft but demanding of her focus.

Meeting her gaze with an incline of her head, Lyra hummed, "Hm?"

Rhea kept her eyes, jaw flexing as though her mouth wished to open but was kept from doing so. Lyra looked on, knowing she was doing a terrible job at disguising her interest in what Rhea would say when her dear friend huffed exasperatedly. There was warmth in her eyes when she gathered herself and asked,  "If it's alright, may I see you tomorrow?"

Lyra's mouth fell open; her shoulders sagging under the strange sensation of having an act lifted from them. She half-expected needing to chase Rhea throughout the village in an effort to garner a modicum of attention. Perhaps because of how busy she was, and how adamant she professed her need to commit to duty. How could she have possibly considered her dear, stone-headed friend would willfully commit part of her time to seeing her? 

Her mind returned to their earlier conversation when Rhea's hand encompassed her cheek, and her eyes filled the entirety of her world. 

What can I do for you, Lyra? 

She looked away, smiling to herself as she turned around and walked down the steps. Rhea didn't stop her from going but Lyra could feel the burn of her eyes against her back. Long had it been since she missed the attentiveness in her gaze. 

"Of course, you may see me anytime you wish," said Lyra, peeking over her shoulders with her hands clasped around the basket's handle.  She smiled crookedly, giggling as she continued, "After all, our fates are intertwined like you said."

"I said nothing of the sort," Rhea said dryly, and Lyra could not help but laugh.

"Goodnight Rhea," She bid, spinning around to face her with a wave of her hand. Then, she raised her voice toward the stables and called,  "Oh, and you too, Ulysses."

The stallion lifted his head, twitching ears perked up as he snuffled after her. Lyra bent slightly at the waist with a stage whisper, cupping her hand around the side of her mouth,  "Look after her, won't you?"

She spared another look in Rhea's direction, catching the shake of her head. The sight of her standing in the doorway of her old home was so dear that Lyra yearned to keep it for a moment longer, walking back into the trees until she could no longer see Rhea clearly beneath their boughs. At last, she turned away and set off. 

The trees nestled on either side of her stood as guard and vigil against the wave of emotion crashing over her. Recalling the extent of her conversation with Rhea brought on a convoluted mixture of joy and remorse. Weary as she was to consider her old friend would sooner leave her again than she would stay; there was a happiness undeniably grand that she'd returned at all. Lyra avoided stepping on the peeking heads of flowers hiding within the tall grass, and stepping aside fallen sticks lying in her way. The forest was quieter now than it had been in moons, and as she stepped onto the path winding up the hill where her home awaited, she wondered if the spirits decided to rest for the evening.

Lyra looked down, bringing her basket to the front of her before she started up the path. The higher she'd climbed, the fainter the trodden path had become until she was sidling her feet into the grass and heather nestled at the flattest part of the hill. Her eyes widened when she saw a silhouette seated upon a boulder half-sunken into the ground. 

"Mama..?!" She gasped, flinging herself into a run as the silhouette raised its head. Underneath the moonlight cast down by the passing clouds uncovering the moon's face, her mother raised her head and offered Lyra a sweet, welcoming smile. Lyra managed to slow her approach enough to keep from colliding into her mother, falling to her knees instead by her side. 

"What's wrong?" She asked, frantically looking over her mother's face. There were faint circles deepened beneath her eyes, and a strange pallor to her tawny skin pronouncing the blueness of her veins when Lyra reached for her wrists. She softened her voice out of instinct when she noticed the child swaddled in her mother's robes, curled with his fluffy head pressed to the swell of her stomach. His breaths were slow and even, lips moving with little murmurs that had no words to put to them. Yet, there was a strangeness in the way that he slept.

The basket fell from her hands as she reached for her brother. Lyra brushed her fingers against his cheek, startled by the coldness of his skin. "Damiano, what has happened to him—?!"

"Calm yourself, Lyra," her mother bade, laying her hand atop of Lyra's fingers. "Your brother is only sleeping. He practiced channeling the aether in the leys and exhausted himself." 

Lyra turned her eyes up to her mother, staring into the depths of her eyes. They did not shift with concern nor did they weaken with panic. Her mother held her with compassion, and humor as if she was puzzling over something needless. "You seem troubled, daughter."

"I could say the same to you," Lyra returned, despising how childish she sounded. Her mother only pursed her lips as if she wished to laugh but mercifully chose not to. In one fluid motion, she rose to her feet with her robes rippling around her like the tide. 

"Come, we will speak come the morn," her mother promised, and Lyra clung to the oath within those words as she took her hand.

She allowed her mother to pull her into her embrace, cradling her head against her shoulder as they walked home side-by-side.