Henry witnessed Irene’s expression and overall demeanor change the moment they made it to the lands her grandmother once occupied. There was a serious thoughtfulness as she regarded the familiar place and likely the memories that came with it.

He felt honored that he was being let in on something so precious to Irene. With it came the hope that there would be more moments like this, but without being forced into them. In his eyes, they had a long life ahead and would have plenty of opportunities to share themselves.

They approached a small dwelling that was tucked into the grassy hill like a well-kept secret. It was hidden from the rest of the village and even more concealed by the trees both higher and lower than it. Directly around it were plenty of fields. There was even a small lean-to for horses that had at one point occupied this place.

Irene led Henry to the front door, where they got off of their horses and allowed them to freely roam around the home.

To enter, there was no lock and key, only the trust of those who surrounded this area to respect the dead’s last items before their departure. Although it probably did help that the one passed was the mother of the most powerful man in this region.

Henry couldn’t help realizing that it was the meagerness of this place that reminded him of the peasant village where he grew up, but it was only the size that made him think of the peasants. Otherwise, this place was taken care of and didn’t seem in danger of collapsing.

The peasant village at home looked practically abandoned because people couldn’t afford to patch up the things they had. He had only been able to winterize his mother’s home for a few years before he left because he had finally made an earning outside of the peasant village.

"Come this way," Irene directed as she opened the door.

The moment the door was open, Henry was submerged in a world far unlike the peasant village, however.

There were weapons, art, and decorations that he had no way of deciphering. All he knew was that most were old and they were all likely sentimental to be displayed with such care.

His dark eyes never stopped as he took in his surroundings. There was something herbal and medicinal in the air as well. He recognized it as a scent he had smelled in Irene’s first aid kit that she brings with her while traveling—likely a remedy that her grandmother had passed to her.

"It feels like we’ve entered a new world," Henry admitted.

Irene’s smile seemed warmer now.

"It’s just like how the houses are decorated in the north," Irene admitted. "Each one I passed by felt just like this. Imagine snow worse than what we get in Chemois. The houses there are practically all roof on the outside so that they don’t collapse underneath it."

"I want to see it one day," Henry decided.

"If it isn’t too cold for a southerner like you," Irene joked.

"My northern woman will keep me warm, won’t she?" he retorted.

"Ask nicely," Irene uttered.

Despite the circumstances, Irene felt light as she turned away from him to find the shelves where the books would most likely be. She hid her red face from Henry. Keeping him warm might look different in the future. They were to be wed, after all...

There were only three books she found relevant to Sünstoian weddings. They were leather-bound and extremely old, but as she cracked open the books as carefully as she could, she was hit with nostalgia at the sight of her grandmother’s handwriting in the margins around the text. They were filled with things she deemed important for the future Sünstoian girls to understand about their weddings.

Even in the Sünstoian culture, which was quite a bit more free-spirited than that in the Kingdom of Peroda, there were still a few corrections to be made. Since Kara was the last connection to the north, it seemed she had deemed herself the rightful one to change certain narratives.

Henry stepped closer to Irene when he realized her demeanor had changed again and her eyebrows were lowered.

"Let’s not get lost in the pages just yet," he muttered as he gently closed the book. "We have plenty of time to read."

Irene allowed Henry to take the book, and she settled into his arms. It all felt so heavy. If she could simply keep leaning on him, perhaps the pain would go away. Even if it didn’t, at least it made her feel less alone to know that someone else was trying to shoulder it for her.

She took him in with a deep breath, and her nose pressed against the nape of his neck, reminding her of the scent that comforted her so well.

Knocking her from her thoughts, she heard Henry say as he observed the wall over her, "What is this little bow? Is that your name carved into it?"

Henry didn’t fully let Irene go, but he kept his arm around her waist as he stepped forward and reached towards the wall. He delicately touched the string that was somehow still intact despite how worn the bow looked. It was clear that the bow was fit for a child.

For some reason, Irene felt a bit guilty as if she had been hiding this secret from the man she was going to marry. At least this change in topic was making her feel better.

"Actually... I used to be quite the archer," Irene admitted.

She wasn’t afraid of breaking the bow as she stepped forward and took it off the wall. She gently tested the string’s strength as she pulled it back. Even with weapons that weren’t in use, her grandmother always made sure bow strings were tight and the edges of metal weapons were sharp. There wasn’t much else for the old woman to do in the lulls between her family’s visits.

It seemed to come back to Irene despite the bow being much too small for her. Her posture straightened, and she pulled the string tight as she aimed for a random target on the opposite wall. Once lined up, her breathing ceased before she let go of the string, and it snapped back into place.

She realized it hadn’t been all that long since she had given up the bow. Time with Henry felt like it was endless yet happened in an instant. The years were short, but what he taught her about herself and her ability to feel happened quickly.

"Why did you stop?" he wondered.

"I sort of... buried it with my grandmother," she admitted, her voice quiet. Her green eyes never left the bow in her hands. But the words kept pouring out of her after he asked her the question. "It felt too hard to pick up a bow when the one who taught me how was no longer here. But I do have regrets. I don’t want to lose the skill completely, it’s just that it reminds me of her so much, and I feel like I’m going against my grandmother’s very culture to have such trouble with death. I’m supposed to welcome it with open arms and know that we are sending our loved ones to the afterlife, prepared to face whatever they might... But it’s so hard, Henry. How am I supposed to be a Sünstoian when I’m so afraid of people dying and leaving me behind? I didn’t want my grandmother to die. I don’t want to see my father die."