Fingers came laced twixt his own and squeezed tight. His mismatched eyes looking there upon the weave of their flesh and bone. Still warm. Still pulsing. His head lulled a nod. His own fibers flexing to match Monroe's. The other hand came up to cup about those trembling knuckles there with his.

Maybe he was broken. For feeling so little amidst all this. Other than cold. Distant. Like it was just another task that needed dealing with.

But then, so was prepping the bodies for the ceremony. Carving away the growths. Mending the gashes.Stitching his friends back together, for one last duty.

Maybe that was why he wrapped an arm around Monroe and held her tight as the bloody cant filled the air. Some voices echoing there with the Captains. Most quiet. Few made off in sharp daggerous march.

Matvi's fingers ran through Monroe's hair. Easy strokes. Soothing sounds. "I never know what to do at these things," he confessed to her.
 
Monroe's hair stopped at the brush of her shoulders, of which she was glad that the wear of the day had not put too many knots in her locks. The calming ritual of fingers smoothing through her hair allowed her to take a deep, shaky breath. The safety of being in Matvi's embrace was a comfort she did not know she needed.

Where he thought himself broken, Monroe felt shattered.

She was quiet, working through her unstable breaths to keep those waiting sobs at bay, but with her head hidden from view it, Monroe let out the softest sob. Her arms moved to wrap around him and squeezed, as if letting go meant she would crumble on her own two feet.

"Fuck." She squeezed her eyes shut, letting out a loud and shuddering breath that begged for composure. "Usually I just get shitfaced and bear through it but this..." This time it hit too close to home. It made her feel mortal. By the gods, Monroe had no idea how to process this, here she was crying in the arms of Matvi of all people.

"Just so you know, mate," Monroe's voice forced to remain steady. "That if you tell anyone I cried, they won't believe you." She lifted her head, as if letting him see her red nosed and weeping would force her to stop. She attempted a smile, but it never reached her eyes. "Because I will make you cry instead."
 
Blind to the pyre so the heat felt twice as warm. Blind to the knights standing around her so their silent sobs were twice as loud. Smoke from her pipe would raise like the pyre before Noa, quick to be lost against a sky that twinkled and glimmered despite below the heavy hearts, shared grief intangible.

She would wear out every memory she had of them. Forgetting even a tiny one was anathema. This place would hold onto her heart even when it was time for her to let everything go.

It would have been easier if she were drunk. Or it might have been harder. Fingers pulled the pipe from her mouth, craning her head back until the back of her head was on the back of her neck. Blowing gently, sweetly, the same way she wished for all souls to be ferried, not too fast, not too slow, just right.

"I once heard a monk tell a grieving mother," Noa said to Hector and Oliver, the space from Kaarle leaving granting her the opportunity to fill it. "The world never welcomes you when you are born because family does that, it only ever welcomes you when you pass on." From one warm embrace to the next. Letting go of one hand for another, walking together until it was time to move on.

"No goodbye is ever set in stone, Hector." Pipe back between downturned lips, even she couldn't force an encouraging smile. A long, painful drag that was supposed to make her lightheaded and easygoing. Morose and sober, memories like melodies that Noa couldn't get out of her head. There she could still say hello, share a laugh, pressure them into joining her for a drink. In her head, she was still there with them.

No goodbye could ever be set in stone when the gods gave them memories for a reason.
 
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