There is a bare patch of land, right outside the Palace doors, where the land almost bleeds into Zeivahr. Her white wedding dress is marred with mud as Saskia kneels down, digging – not with much thought, but so much care, and though she is already exhausted from carrying the bodies she does what she must. She digs until there is space enough for a burial.

It doesn’t feel right. But maybe it’s not the land that is wrong; maybe it’s the horrible dread in her chest, the cold dead knowledge that doesn’t feel right yet, that hasn’t sunk in. That they are gone. That they were both fated to end like this.

Eventually she is done digging. And as carefully as she can, she lowers the two into the dark, cool earth.

They are beside each other. It is not as deep as it should be, not as wide, but all she knows is that the two must not be separated. They look almost peaceful. Agnes, as though holding Simeon’s hand, their expressions slack. Xer face rests on his shoulder; his, in xer hair.

She stays by them for a long time. Her dress is torn, veil abandoned. And she keeps vigil for as long as she can. Longer than she can bear, an ache in her chest as she looks down.

But eventually, she must leave. She cannot stay witness to a story that has ended already.

Two hearts that never got to beat beside one another, together in stillness.

There is a houseboat, in the Floating Market. A cluttered nest, a hollow hull filled to make a home with keepsakes from loved ones, mementos from afar. It is more private than the merchant ship. Her captain is more private than the merchant. It is rare for her ever to be unmoored. She sits in her customary spot nestled between the other rafts and boats, gently rocked by the sea, but in all respects just so. The woman inside is not much different. She tends to the little space with quiet diligence, her thoughts far away, on the sea.

She makes herself a cup of tea. Two spoonfuls of sugar, careful not to wet the spoon between them. When the crystals are drowned she stirs twice clockwise, twice counter, and dries the spoon before placing it back in the jug. Her husband's absence makes her nervous, even after all these years, but like all life's anxieties, she bears this one, too, with grace. Comfortable in the discomfort, she makes it a part of herself. Closing her eyes, the steam rises up to her lips like the spray upon a moving deck. She calls up the image of her lover's face, tracing those antlers' lines in her mind. Please, let him return to me.

As she breathes through the familiar tightness in her chest, she turns her thoughts to her sons. Our Lady Weaver had been kind, for once. Her eldest, at least, would always return. For the others, she says a small prayer, asking for Fate's blessing on their travels. Her pride and fear in seeing them grow and find their own paths make uneasy but inseparable partners in her heart. It is only right for a mother to feel thus about her sons.

But what of her daughter? How should she feel about her? How can one feel about one's own flesh and blood when one has not felt its touch in six years, not heard its voice or looked into its eyes? Not held her close, not kept her safe, not found, let alone been able to show her the way home. There are no more tears left to season the tea, but a dull ache remains behind her eyes where they once welled, as she entreats Fate in her mind, as she always has done. Shelter my child, Our Lady, on my behalf, and wherever she may have gone, if you cannot ensure my lamb's safe return, I beg, provide her with loving arms elsewhere which she might call home.

Written by Sophia dM.

There is a house, in Egyország. A place that is perfect for the bureaucrats who inhabit it.

Tobias pins the brooch to his lapel. A raven skull, topped with a crown; inherited from his great-grandfather, and a part of his daily wear.

He kisses his wife’s forehead as he walks past her desk. She is penning what is to be the third revision on this piece of policy, and she gives him a gentle smile before she returns to her work. Dutiful as ever. He smiles down at her, and the raven skull earrings at her ears. An engagement present, a great many years ago now. He leaves her to her work.

Instead, he makes his way to his daughter’s room, where she is doubtless buried in a book rather than taking her penmanship lessons. He happens to be almost right – Eve is sat at her windowsill, turned to stare out at the trees shading her view. The raven hairpin is all he sees of the back of her head as she sighs, the forlorn sigh of the lovestruck young. He closes the door quietly, so she is not disturbed.

The only one missing is his son. Simeon is off with his valet, in a Palace somewhere far away, investigating these matters of fate. A dangerous mission in these times, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to stop him, when he was so very insistent, so excited for the opportunity. Of course, he ditched the carriage he was offered right away.

Finally he sits at the table for breakfast, and as he waits for the butler to bring out the food, he makes his way through the letters atop the table. One is marked in a scratchy hand, written in Vyrhene, oddly enough – through the thin envelope, he sees the name Simeon. He opens it first.

The house is silent for weeks.