---

The day her house had been swallowed, engulfed in spiraling flames coaxed by the hand of stranger both man and beast were a hazy, thick clouded fog to her memory. Since the incident, she’d taken shelter up in the loft within her school. There were a few unnamed boxes filled with older material that had yet to have been sorted through save for the occasional cobweb that had otherwise claimed the undisturbed area. Her set up was what she considered a modest one. A simple blanket and a pillow pulled from the little sitting nook where their story-telling time.

The renovations of the school had finally concluded, and the workers were sent off to manage the repairs of the orphanage as planned. Only guilt festered in the pit of her stomach as she wanted desperately to be happy with the progress made and yet it was the last thing she could bring herself to focus on.

The morning light began to creep through the windows with welcoming warm rays of the inviting sun. Birds trilled their harmonic jovial tunes that were perched upon the nearby trees outside. The air was a cooler morning with the vying subtle hints of autumn. The new semester would be not for another several weeks. Though in reality, any work she’d given herself had come to an abrupt halt. The bruise beneath her right eye had lessened but remained present. Perhaps it would be diminished completely by the time she promised to return to her affairs as promised in the letters sent.

Sonata awoke to the quiet musical choir of the outside and the tense silence that remained within walls of the smaller school building. Tired and bruised, and uncomfortable though without complaint, did dulled golden sights settled on the letters of reply by the Beleveron siblings, her heart briefly warming at their kindness. It did not hold back the return of tears she had thought long dried after the several nights spent in the loft crying in lonesome silence. Arabella’s especially finding the genuine sincerity and attempt in her literature. The teacher wondered if they would allow her to take over the writing lessons upon her return. Another letter she would intend to send out to the older brother. 

But her teachings did not linger on her mind.

Depression was its own cruel demon, and it showed itself through the empty ceramic mug resting on its side. Its contents from the previous day dosed in a sweeter ale with small, very small inclinations of wolfsbane. She finally sat up right but not without sound of discomfort grumbling from her breath. The floor was uncomfortable even if she did try to make the best of it. Her palm raking through the mess of her silver and lilac curls, contemplating whether or not she could bring herself to a more productive day.

---

 The smell of iron stole across his tongue, his senses raked the very same as the flesh by the iron barbs of flagellation. No longer did he flinch or recoil from the sight and sound that came from the ceremony. Long had he come to accept that those who committed grievous sin needed the suffering to be allowed back into the fold. Their way back into grace was illuminated by the crimson that their bodies shed. Along with the sanguine wine, the flesh bled out their transgressions. The lesions opened the hide to allow in the beginnings of forgiveness. Of the grace that they had turned their backs on.

It still didn't mean it didn't make him ill.

As the fervent prayers finally ended, along with the final snap of the bladed whip, he was among the first outside of the cathedral, lungs drawing in great gulps of fresh air as eyes were fast shut to block out the threat of a spinning world. Others passed by, a mixture of distress and the same conformed distance that he outwardly offered placed among their features. Smiles were offered, as well as some blessings of safety and good luck from those whos husbands and brothers he served with. While he was free on this day, his time was still vastly limited by the curfew. Due to his faith, he was allowed to depart the barracks for the communion of the cathedral services, and then he was meant to be back.

Sonata's letter was tucked away safely within his breast pocket, however. Her askance for him to retrieve for her the ornament of her students' gift. He knew his parents always attended a lunch with the family friends after prayer, so his window to find the rock she'd asked for and get it to her hands before he was noticed missing was brief.

Thankfully, the proceedings went smoothly, and the ghosts within the portrait she specified kept their faces keenly happy as he grabbed the moonstone from before them. A counted miracle in and of itself since oftentimes when he looked upon them, the smiles of those no longer with them were oft times twisted into malignant frowns of displeasure. An ominous sensation settled within the pit of his stomach. Survivor's guilt. His father always told him. He allowed a shaken sigh to depart his lips as he turned away, ensuring the door was locked behind him as he exited his family home.

Then came the sprint across the way to her school building. A breathless, gasping askance for the merciful divine to let the door be unlocked after all as she had mentioned in her postage. His ribs burned by the time he reached the building. Noting that the renovations had turned out quite well and the scaffolding had been removed from its face as he doubled over, hands on his knees as he tried to regain his breath. A rather loud woo! left him as he finally forced himself to straighten, his arm feeling weak as he knocked upon the surface before he would try the knob, just in case she was present despite having said the semester would be ending soon.

---

It had never been in her nature to actively go out of her way for a drink of spirits. Perhaps on social occasion but never to immerse deeply so to numb the emotional and maybe even the few physical aches though temporary. The lone blanket was pulled closer to her person as Sonata leaned back against the wall and supporting beam that aided the weight to the roof overhead. A sigh escaping her as she tried to piece together such unwelcoming events that took place. Denial threatening reason as such moments truthfully felt like a horrible dream forced to experience. The proof was the lingering scent of smoke that still clung to her hair and what little clothing she could salvage not to mention the evidence of a struggle with firm reminder that such nightmarish antics were a true. 

Right hand would brush across its partnered eye and immediately snapped away with regret accidentally catching the bruising that darkened her pallid face. A quiet curse escaped her breath both at herself and the silver-braced knuckles that decorated her assailant’s hand during her efforts to fight through their assaults while desperately trying to reach for her burning home. It would be a lie to say she felt any remorse for their impending end though not by her own hand, but for another threat. The happenings between she and the vampire were very much a dense fog, a messy blur as it had been forever a challenge to remember events when she possessed her lycanthrope form.

Eventually the widowed maiden had descended from the small, cramped loft but not without the single blanket as if it were some sort of security measure wrapped tautly at her shoulders. Disheveled was a mere lighter term to describe her presence while quietly gazing upon the open concept of her classroom. The desks were refurbished, no longer chipped from wear or chair missing their backs. The bookshelves were trimmed neatly and so too were the many books that had been donated find their permanent home within the shelves. Pillows and blankets and a few stuffed toys made for the little reading nook that neighbored her own desk.

Sonata came upon a crudely drawn picture that had long been framed and Aeolian’s name was messily painted in ink across it. Golden sights settled upon the little family of stick figures and a few others that the boy had been familiar with. 

A sudden rapting sound nearly caused her very soul to exit promptly from her body, knocking coming rather sudden to her ears and unexpected. Her temple pressed against the wall for a moment as she struggled to gather her bearings, humiliated with herself getting spooked so easily. Quickly, however, and some desperation she would try to make herself look at little more presentable before making her way to the entrance. Just as she went to reach for the door, the knob had already turned and said door opened. Eyes widened with genuine surprise to see the knight. “Coen?” his name slipped from her lips without thinking, confused by his company as if she’d completely forgotten of the letter, she sent him.

---

He would release one last puff of desperate air, feeling the tightness within his chest finally start to alleviate. The portal, meanwhile, swung open with little insistence. The quiet murmur of its hinges much quieter than the last time he recalled trespassing the building. Though that would have been before the battle for Dunmeath. That would have been him accompanying Cristoph on some manner of errand or another to his wife. Be it lunch or a simple bouquet of flowers he had plucked from the wilds. While the outside had seen improvements and a few additions that he assumed had been added in the time since then, the true glimpse of her hard work and those of the contractors lay on the interior of the building.

The desks were new, the paneling lining the wall refurbished to a shine. It felt cooler within than without, suggesting that the insulation had also been updated. The desks themselves were a far sight better, the tops a sheen without blemish now to mar them due to the destruction of carved nuances made by idle hands during educative lectures and demonstrations.

His gaze, however, soon found her as well. Curious stare turned away, a quick aversion as his hand dug into the lining of his pocket, hasty to retrieve the stone she had asked for. Grasping it, he would then turn back to her, his fingers outstretched in offering of the trinket, though he would find pause. Freezing at the sight of her countenance. The light and life that often lit her features was absent, snuffed to gaunt and tired apparition. Stress was evident, her luminous skin discolored and tarnished beyond its gilded normalcy. Most striking, however, was the dark mar that ringed her eye.

His relaxed posture grew rigid, his stare sharper as he took the few steps into the building, effectively shutting the door behind him with the clasp of the fixture. His arm lowered, clenching into fists as the moonstone threatened to bite into the calloused breadth of his palm. "Sonata." Her name left his lips on a low breath, barely above a whisper. He knew wrath to be a sin, truly, he did. He knew it was a dark mar branded upon the heart, it clouded judgement. It was unbecoming of someone of his station. Yet he could not help it.

Forgiveness could be asked for later.

"Who did this to you?" He inquired, a query that would not be easily dismissed, especially as the hint of spirits accompanied her visage, slipping through his senses. While he hadn't been in her presence often since her husband's demise, he would have never taken her as one to partake in alcohol. Nor had his mother ever expressed any concern over such a matter as she viewed the widow as a close friend. A long sigh left him, forcing his fingers to uncoil, as he would try to gently grip her chin should she not pull away. Though he left her plenty of opportunity to do so. Should she not, he would genially tilt her crown to better look at her bruised eye, his brow forced to soften with concern. "Have you had this looked at?" He had his doubts, but even more confusing - or perhaps a further cause for alarm - was that she was here, with the door unlocked instead of finding shelter in her own dwelling.

---

Surprised to say the least to see the knight at the doorstep assuming his time was anything but free with the given whispers and allegations of a threat looming in the air. The taunt of famine did not go unnoticed though she knew there was only so much one individual could do to help alleviate hunger pains of those less fortunate. He was alive though, and with a quick briefing and tentative assumption he seemed well enough and that sufficed as she made a mental silent thanks. Sonata watched as he searched a moment within his pockets before retrieving the very stone she had misplaced.

Her expression sobered and her shoulders dropped. Longing she wished she’d been less careless despite the excitement that had once fluttered in her stomach. Grateful for those little minds so eager to learn and grow with new knowledge as she’d shared with his mother just hours before the incident. Sonata went to reach for the moonstone only to watch it recoil within a growing fist as the door closed behind Coen’s entry. Her name caused her to unconsciously wince as if it brought physical harm and her eyes fell to newly furnished floor of fine oakwood.

Who did this to you? She took in a sharp breath fighting back the threat of more tears as the events resurfaced to her memory. It was difficult to discern the faces as everything was moving far too quickly or all at once. “I—” the widowed maiden couldn’t find her words. If anything her voice cracked with the hint of emotion tugging her vocals.

She merely froze when his hand found her chin though it did not refrain her from the slight wince despite knowing that the knight before her wouldn’t bring such harm to her as those who took it upon themselves to destroy everything within the home that had been built as well as its very foundation. Have you had this looked at? her lower lip curled inward as if to give the answer away then. “No,” her admittance was quiet, “I— haven’t yet.” It was then she’d break away from his just as the new set of tears slowly began to trickle down her cheeks.

“I was trying—” she took in an unsteady breath because she knew crying while trying to speak would be impossible to comprehend as she’d try to quell whatever mishaps that could happen between her younger students be it sharing a toy or a broken crayon. “…. They destroyed everything, Coen.” Her hands clawed into the blanket she had wrapped herself in as her head dropped and the tears rained down her face, splashing down to the floor. “Aeolian’s toys, Christophs letters—the house he built—”

“… It’s all gone!”

---

She seemed almost upset as he handed her the stone, and with the bitter glance of her condition, he couldn't precisely blame her. His jaw set against the dark fury that bid its time within the heart pounding in his breast. There was an unmistakable gloom that draped about her shoulders like a mourning shroud, an expressionless grief that didn't find immediate purchase upon her features. It was a grim familiarity. The one Cristoph's arm had eased the burden of when they had lowered their child into his resting place. The one she was left to face alone as she did the same for her husband.

Loss.

“I—” the waters of the vast sea poured into her open mouth and reflected within her gaze, threatening to drown her. What little of her voice emerged was strangled, brittle and cracking like the first thin layer of frost upon a lake. He almost trembled with the apprehension, a loathsome uncertainty clinging to him like verminous gremlins, their fingertips digging into his flesh, their teeth invoking ice to plunge through his veins. What had happened to her? Had his parents known and simply said nothing?

She flinched at his touch before drawing deathly still. At first, his fingers would begin to recoil, but resolution bid him to gently grip her chin, tilting her head to better observe the dark bruising that pooled around her dull gilded eye. It was the worst of inclinations that threatened his musings first, especially given her reaction to his extended grasp, though he would hope she would never think him one to strike her. “No,” she spoke softly, hushed. “I— haven’t yet.” The words left her as she, too, departed him. A breath would leave him, a sigh heaved through his nose in silent acceptance as he'd seen the well of tears looming over the edge of her lashes.

“I was trying—” she would halt herself as her vocals threatened to fracture all together under the cumbersome weight of her duress. She invited a deep, calming gulp of air into her lungs, anchoring and calming her for all that it could. “…. They destroyed everything, Coen.” Her fingers bore into the fabric that cloaked her. Faint bewilderment and concern furrowed his brow, a hand reaching out in offer to settle softly onto her shoulder, should she allow it. His silent bid for her to continue was not left wanting overly long. “Aeolian’s toys, Christophs letters—the house he built—” That ominous cold venom reached the pit of his belly, coiling like a ravenous serpent. The last physical connection to her precious family.

Gone.
“… It’s all gone!”

The cloying intonation within her tone made his skin writhe, a discomfort making its home within the depth of his bones, hollowing the marrow and settling in its place. It was visceral, vulnerable. "Please, sit down, Sonata." He murmured, offering her the closest chair, before both hands would attempt to settle upon her shoulders and give a comforting squeeze. "What happened? Why your home?" While he wasn't certain she would have answers, he couldn't imagine someone specifically targeting the kind-hearted woman. Not when she was so giving. So kind. So warm. It just didn't make sense.

---

There was a disassociation between being surrounded by the blackened remains of her home and the tense quiet of the smaller school structure where the teacher would house herself within the loft. Sonata would’ve easily admitted she couldn’t recall what happened within that timeline. It may have been unusual guest that took it upon themselves to a free meal, or the obvious trauma. Maybe a collection of both though at the moment it didn’t matter and it was not where her thoughts wandered. It was the fact that she’d lost what remaining piece of her previous life before being ripped away from the sanctuary of her family.

Guilt was quick to find herself in the slight recoil upon Coen’s aid. This wasn’t his fault and as she reminded herself again, he would have never raised his hand at her in such a manner. She’d not yet sought the appropriate care needed as she couldn’t bring herself to burden other with such tribulations. Sonata even made sure to remain vague to the Beleveron siblings when she wrote to them. The gentleness was welcomed, though short lived as she inevitably broke away from him just as the flow of tears came, uninvited. There was an emptiness that had long since formed though she did well to hide it, mask that void relentlessly with her teachings and volunteering. Knowing that, when she returned home, she was greeted with the uncomely silence and abandoned toys.

It was her husbands letters that she had kept every time he wrote to her. She held on to every last one of them, it is what kept that ever friendly contagious simper upon plush lips. All it took was an ignited spark A single flame, albeit coaxed by magic, to bring all of that into ruination. This admittance provoked a heavy rain to pour from golden eyes that seemed to have lost its light.

Please, sit down, Sonata. Came the measured coaxing of the knight. A chair plucked from one of the desks was offered to which her weight flopped gracelessly within the seat. She felt the strength of his hands upon her shoulders and responded wearily by placing one hand upon his own in a quiet thanks. Her sobbing turned into whimpering sniffles. What happened? the inevitable question came, Why your home? The widow did not respond immediately.

“I don’t know—” she started her gaze downtrodden. “I…I think they were looking for money.” She shook her head. “But… but any crescent I make I put directly into the renovations,” Sonata was still trying to wrap her head around it. “They were angry and violent. They accused me of their starvation but…” her brows knitted. “I do not know who they were.” Sonata was not the individual who would flaunt her spending and she did not seek to live so frivolously. If she was not at the schoolyard sharing her teachings or at the orphanage tending to the hungry, or sharing a song or two to brighten the sprits of misplaced children, the young maiden kept to herself. “Coen, did I do something wrong?”

---

He allowed his eyes to close as she settled within the offered chair. She did not try to mask the rugged exhaustion or withering sadness in her usual display. She nearly fell into the seat without the fluent grace that often times accompanied her motions. It was then that his hands rested upon her shoulders, a mixture of comfort and needed contact as she told him of what had transpired. Oh, holy Miracle, hear my plea. the mantra of the healing prayer would surface within his mind as he drew in a long breath and released in slowly in concentration. I, your humble servant, beseech your aid for this poor sinner.

The influx of magic flowed softly through his fingertips, seeking the pains of her injuries to soothe and mend them. He knew all too well that she was unlikely to seek out any aid for the wrongs dealt to her, as was obvious by her current condition and whereabouts. She should have sought medical help long before this, and yet she spoke of not wanting to burden others. He knew that the true culprit was likely the threads of grief threatening to overwhelm her - to drown her wholly beneath that corrupted sea. She certainly was already all too familiar with the sentiment, but after just so shortly losing Cristoph, he could only imagine the depths that she had been plunged into now.

He exhaled another long breath, allowing his eyes to open. “I don’t know—” her eyes remained focused upon the flooring, not raising to meet his own as he paced halfway around the seating. “I…I think they were looking for money.” Again, he felt the white hot sear of his temper rising, an ever present reminder of the condition of the town and nearby areas. Of course, her home wasn't the first to get burgled, but it was the first that landed close to his own relations. He couldn't help the blasphemous rage directed wholly at their king. It was a growing abyss in recent days. The pleas of his people seemingly falling upon deaf ears of the reigning monarch. Certainly, he ordered hunters to hunt more but in the end, what lasting good would it do? His people also needed something more than meat, goods he was not readily purchasing, nor were many with wealth to flaunt.

The church did what it could with funds provided by those within its pews, but even then their reach was not infinite. He had known it was only a matter of time, and yet it didn't dull the sting of inaction. “But… but any crescent I make I put directly into the renovations,” he nodded, this he knew, as did any familiar with the woman. “They were angry and violent. They accused me of their starvation but… I do not know who they were.” His brow furrowed, a conflicting mixture of burning hatred and sadness both. While he wanted to condemn them for their actions, there was a part of him that whispered that they probably also had family they were merely desperate to care for in these demented times. Regardless, he could not allow himself to forgive them, not right away. Not like he should. He would be scolded for such notions. He would need repentance for the ire that refused the idea of offering to them the olive branch of peace. “Coen, did I do something wrong?”

He would kneel before her, his own stare trying to capture hers. "No, Sonata, you cannot be blamed for this." He knew who he wanted to blame, and perhaps it was time word was officially sent from the church on such a manner. They needed to do something. Even those gathered for the draft were naught but poor wraiths, skin and bone that could nearly be seen through when they caught the light. If much more time passed, they would be naught but piles of dust, unfit to defend anything. "And you can't just... stay here. You need a place to properly rest." Once again, he was at an impasse, a conflict that was already resolved and yet the outcome he was not in favor of. He would have to return to the barracks - and soon, much to his dismay, if he wasn't already pronounced missing. "Come to my parents', Sonata. You can stay with them, we have spare rooms. I will see what I can do in regards to the house."

---

The hand that which rested upon her shoulders was a warmth she did not realize she needed until it came. Her own sought to rest atop of his own a thumb sweeping over the back of his hand in the unknowing quiet plea. She knew his time was harshly limited with the threat of war looming over Vufrien as she was no stranger to it whenever Christoph managed to find any time he could to escape the hardships and return home. Even then such visitations were limited. Sonata shared with Coen what she could recall and it proved challenging in its own. There was another warmth that found its way coursing through her, finding the sensitive nerves of injury and began to ease the pain, mend any bruise and broken flesh. A shuddering breath escaped her as the dark circle that marred her eye would fade.

Sonata shared with the paladin what she witnessed and the more she shared with him the more she wondered if she was deserving of it – if she truly had done something that would surface such a punishment. No, Sonata, you cannot be blamed for this. Dulled golden sights would lift where she was met with the ever changing blue-green of his own where he knelt before her. Her hands had since returned to the company of her lap as her eyes would downcast once more and tears occasionally dripped down her flushed cheeks. He spoke in earnest as his aura proved to glimmer a positive light. And you can’t just… stay here.

She would look to him again with obvious confusion. You need a place to properly rest. Puzzled, she wanted to refute that the loft she had been residing in above the classroom was enough to get her by. In truth the space was cramped and not ideal but she wasn’t one to complain when it was better than nothing at all. “But—” Come to my parents’, Sonata. You can stay with them, we have spare rooms. I will see what I can do in regards to the house.

“Oh, Coen – I—wouldn’t I be an imposition on your parents?” Her hands dug into the fabric of the blanket she’d still held on to. “And please don’t – there’s no saving the house.” Her words cracked at this realization. That admittance. “I do not wish to go back there, I can’t…” If she returned now, it would just resurface the roaring fires. The corpses that surrounded it. Her lips pressed tautly together. Her hands forming into fists where they rested upon her lap, nails digging into her palms.