The rain in Falkreath was gentle but constant, soaking through the clothes of anyone currently wandering in it and drumming softly on headstones. Lirael walked with her hands behind her back, reading names off of gravestones she didn’t know with quiet respect. She wasn’t here for any grand purpose, just to feel what grief the town felt. She found Maevra in the corner of the graveyard, a breton soaked through and whispering to the soil like it might answer her.
Her fingers were raw, clawing at the dirt. A broken soul in a town built on mourning. "You're not alone, you know," the Altmer said, stepping up beside her, her tone gentle, not pitying, just present. She hoped not to seem to intruding but couldn't leave this troubled woman to stew in her sorrow alone.
Maevra flinched at the presence of a living being. “What do you want?” “Nothing,” Lirael replied, kneeling in the mud beside her. “But you look like you’ve lost something you can’t get back. I’ve been there too.”
Silence. Then, “My mother.” The High Elf nodded. “I’m sorry. If you need someone to stand still with you for a while, I’m here.”
They sat in silence until the rain stopped. And when Maevra finally stood, wiping her face and summoning a flicker of necromantic energy to her fingers, she half-expected Lirael to flinch. But she didn’t.
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