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Medael brought flowers again.
They're different from the ones she used to give to Sif—boneflames, petals glowing brilliant crimson against Medeael's slender fingers as she weaves them together into a chain under the light of the waning moon.
Something in Freysiam's chest tightens as she approaches, her steps lightened into silence, but Medael looks up anyway. Her horns and scales catch the scant moonlight, and she glows brighter than any flower sitting upon the grass.
Brighter than any soul or duty. A rare smile crosses Medael's face, and that's enough to loosen the shackles on Freysiam's still grieving heart.