Nura lowers the book as Rephas enters the bedroom, smoothing his hands over a forest green tunic, the collar embroidered with gold leaflets.

She quirks a brow. "Well, don't you look nice? Do you have a date with the wildlife?"

"You're not ready yet?"

Nura sits up, abandoning her book as she narrows her gaze at him. "Ready for what?"

"The Harvest Ceremony."

"The Harvest..." Nura gapes at him, her fingers curling in the blankets. "I thought you said we weren't going because it's not safe."

"It's not safe," he murmurs, his gaze on his cuffs as he adjusts them. "But seeing you smile the other day made me remember what's important."

Nura slips from the bed to stand before Rephas. She looks up at him, a full head taller than her, but she's never once felt intimidated or threatened by him. "Thank you."

He shakes his head, lifting his hands to trail them down her arms. "Don't thank me. I shouldn't have kept you from going in the first place. I know it's your favourite celebration."

"Thank you for putting aside your better judgement," she replies with a sheepish smile, aware of how protective he can be and understanding it completely. They've both lost too much to even think about risking what they have but sometimes... sometimes it's okay to let go of their fear. "But maybe clean your beard up a bit."

He wrinkles his nose and rubs his beard. "I quite like my facial hair."

"Well, you're starting to blend in with the animals you surround yourself with. Just a little trim."

He huffs out a laugh. "Alright," he relents.

Nura gives his cheek a chaste kiss before hurrying to get ready. She throws on a chestnut brown dress, tying a gold ribbon around her waist to match Rephas. She twists her long hair into a braid then pins it into a loose bun. She huffs out a breath as she rushes into the kitchen, Rephas watching with amusement as he stands over the basin with a pair of scissors and a mirror.

"You do have an hour or so, love."

"If I don't make a loaf of hazelnut bread then Calla will never let me live it down," Nura replies, clattering in the kitchen to hastily prepare the food. "And that woman holds a grudge like no other."

Her stomach begins to bubble with excitement and she can't seem to wipe the smile from her face. The Harvest Ceremony happens at the end of Sulunary, or the end of the Equinox to the Elves. It's a celebration for the end of the crop yield, the last festival before the long Snowfall sets in. And in Cirallian when the cold comes, ceremonies in open fields will lead to nothing but misery and sickness.

But Nura has always tried her best to celebrate such a thing. She rarely got to look forward to much in the war, but she cherished the small things that she could. She would have been driven mad with uncertainty and terror if she hadn't.

Some days Nura forgets that the war is over. For nineteen years of her life it had lasted. For nineteen years she knew nothing but the walls of the Hold and the blood of the soldiers.

She still cherishes the little things six years later.

The streets of the village are alight with lanterns and filled with laughter and song. They secure their horses in the stables and Rephas carries the food while Nura handles the wine she found in the cupboard and had to dust. Happiness for once swells within the village and Nura's chest aches with it. Even after suffering the losses that they have, these people still cherish the little things as Nura does.

Each of them experienced the war in their own ways, whether that be as a soldier or as a Human who loved an Elf and had them torn away. Or as someone who lost a child to kidnapping by the Shadow Elves. So many suffered and Nura has tried to do what she can to ease such suffering, but even a healer can only do so much.

Nura shakes her head to banish such thoughts and continues forward with Rephas towards the field, keeping close to his warmth and safety. She places a hand in the nook of his elbow and he looks down at her. She smiles, not wanting to burden him with her dark thoughts. Tonight will be a night of fun and happiness, remembering the reasons why they came to the village and left the Hold behind two years ago.

They reach the field of music and laughter, the smell of food and the smoke of a large fire lingering in the air. Lanterns are set up everywhere, igniting the field in an orange glow. The villagers wear their best clothing and smile their largest grins, some already dancing. Dresses flow, hair is left unbound, easy smiles upon their faces. They laugh, drink, and eat. They dance in the glow of the fires, their skin bright, the shadows writhing around them. It's something ethereal, not of this world. The Harvest Ceremony has always reminded Nura of magic, beauty and life. And perhaps she's drawn to magic because of the stigma of being a Witch hanging over her head, though such things as Witches are thought to be mere stories.

Nura pauses amongst it all, remembering the writing on the cabin. The bloody scrawl and the dead pig won't leave her mind as she looks upon their faces, wondering who amongst them could be so sick to do something like that.

"We can go home if you'd like," Rephas murmurs close to her ear. "Sit by the fire, drink hot chocolate and you can tell me a tale from one of the many books you read."

Nura looks up at him, the stark blood fading from her mind as she sees the concern in his brown eyes, the understanding held within something that eases the weight upon her heart. "Though that idea is quite tantalising," she says. "I believe it may do us some good to enjoy the festivities. Now, come, let's set this food down and get something to drink."

"Lead the way, love," he says with a smile and she nudges him forward with her elbow. The music and the smell of food beckons her to forget every worry she has and indulge in the joy of life. Too often she surrounds herself with the dead and the dying that she forgets what it means to have a pulse.

They place the food and the wine on a table filled with an assortment of both. Nura looks up at Rephas and he gazes down at her. She kisses him lightly on the jaw before pouring them both a glass of rich, red wine. She passes him a glass then turns to look at the people around them.

"I suppose we should socialise," she says and he sighs. She smirks at him. "Come on, husband, surely you'd get bored of having only me to converse with?"

"You're a limitless supply of entertainment, love," he says and she shrugs.

"Regardless, you've hardly made friends with anyone here and it's time to change that. Now go on, explore."

He grumbles for a moment before parting ways with Nura and she watches him go, drinking from her glass before heading off on her own way.

She finds a group of women who welcome her into their conversation of clothing and Elven fashion. Calla is amongst them and Nura sidles up to her, the woman giving her a wide smile.

"I didn't think you'd make it," she murmurs so she doesn't disrupt the other women's conversation.

"It was tempting not to come."

"But you're not the type of woman to cower," Calla replies and clinks her glass against Nura's, her gaze flashing with pride in the dancing light of the fires.

"Sometimes I don't know whether that's a gift or a curse." Nura focuses back in on the other conversation, the Elven fashion of Giem being the topic. Resplendent, eye-catching, and far too scarce given the cold climate of Giem being so far north. But such a thing is common for Ice Elves and their hard skin, something Nura never inherited from her Elven side.

"Say, isn't that an Ice Elf over there?" one of the women asks, her words catching Nura's attention and she glances to where the woman gestures. By one of the fires a man stands, adorned with a heavy cloak but there's no mistaking the oddly pale skin even with his hood up and shadows flickering across his jaw. The air seems to ripple around him as he shifts and Nura watches as Rephas stands beside the man, conversing. She studies them as they talk but her gaze must draw their attention, for they both glance towards her. Nura nods in acknowledgement before turning away, allowing her frown to form when they can't see her face.

When did her husband become friendly with Ice Elves? Who is that man?

She spares a glance over her shoulder at them and finds the Ice Elf leaving, Rephas continues idling by the fire, staring into its depths.

Nura excuses herself from the women and walks over to Rephas, her mind beginning to whirl as she thinks on every question she never asked. Where Rephas was before the Hold, what he did during the war, what happened to his family?

"Good evening," she says to get his attention and he looks to her and smiles but there's something haunted in his eyes. "Mind telling me who that was?"

"An... old friend," he murmurs and Nura tilts my head.

"Very well." She turns towards the fire and sips her wine, uncertain of whether she's going to demand answers or smile and pretend that she doesn't care. Everyone is entitled to their secrets, she understands that, but she can't help wondering.

She keeps silent and gazes into the fire, trying to see what he's hiding from her within those licking orange curls.

"Would you like to dance, love?" Rephas asks and Nura glances at him, her eyes narrowed before she smooths her features and smiles.

"Why not?"

They find a table to place their glasses and Nura slips her hand into Rephas' as he leads them closer to the music. He turns to her and slides a hand around her waist and holds the other hand high. She places her palm on his shoulder and looks up at him, the stars twinkling in his dark eyes. They sway to the music and she feels herself beginning to relax. She rests her cheek on his chest, her eyes flicking over the people dancing around them.

"I'm happy we came," she tells him and he hums, his chest rumbling under her ear and she smiles a genuine smile, protected in his arms.

"I'll always love you, dear wife," he says, pressing his lips to the top of her head but there's something in his voice, something that tugs at her heart and makes her lean back and look at him. His eyes are tormented, sad and she desperately wants to wipe that look away from them and replace them with life and laughter.

She raises her hand and places it against his cheek. "And I'll always love you, forever and beyond." She kisses his lips like a whisper, sealing the promise, hoping that whatever he's hiding will not ruin him. Or her.

The screaming is what breaks them from their reverie. It splits the night, stops the music, and stills her breath in her lungs. Nura and Rephas turn, both of them quick to follow the harrowing noise.

The screaming continues as they run hand in hand and Nura's gaze shifts towards the forest, her gut lurching as she sees shadows shift within.

A trick of the light.

"Help!" someone is crying. A woman.

A crowd has gathered by the time Rephas and Nura reach the other side of the field and they push their way through it.

Nura breaks through first and stumbles when she sees the scene before her. She's quick to assess it, her eyes flicking over the woman who cries over the body in the grass. A man, a hunter. He's shirtless, lacerations covering his back, weeping blood and black poison.

"Get him on his side," Nura orders, throwing herself beside the man. The woman helps her roll the man onto his side and Nura places her ear near his mouth, trying to see if he's breathing, as her fingers press against his neck, searching for a pulse.

Silence descends as she waits to feel the beat or the flutter of breath against her cheek. When neither comes in the first few moments, Nura's own pulse picks up its beat.

She reacts, shifts the man onto his back, and begins compressions.

"What are you doing?" the woman shrieks, but Rephas is there before the woman can attack Nura, holding her back.

"Trying to restart his heart," Nura says, her gaze focused.

"Restart his..." The woman lets out a wail, fighting against Rephas' strong hold. "He's dead. Oh, Spirits, he's dead." The words ripple through the crowd, a wave that crashes through them before it comes back to Nura.

"Murderer," someone whispers, but even that whisper is loud amongst the sudden quiet.

Nura's compressions falter.

"Nura," Rephas hisses, but she continues, shaking her head, refusing to let another die.

"Look!" someone shrieks and leaps towards Nura. She winces but continues to press against the man's chest and check his pulse, willing him to awaken. The stranger pulls a bloodied piece of paper from the man's clothes.

Nura doesn't lose focus, even as the paper is passed around and shocked cries arise.

She continues. She has to.

The note is tossed upon the body of the dead man before her face and Nura's compressions falter once again, but this time she doesn't pick them back up.

Give us Nura Wolfire.

"Murderer!" This time it's not a whisper.

Nura raises her head and finds herself surrounded by furious faces. Strangers, all of them. Cold and savage as they point at her and blame her for the countless deaths.

Perhaps she is to blame.

Someone grabs her, tearing her away from the man and she cries out as fingers dig into her arm, bruising her.

"Elven whore!" they spit in her face.

"Witch!" they scream at her.

"Get off!" she shouts, fighting back. But she's being buried, buried beneath layers of hate and damnation.

Once they tied her to a tree when she was little, used her as target practice to throw stones, laughing as she bled. She still carries the scars, but the memories have left a deeper mark.

She's hauled away and then she finds herself in Rephas' arms, the shadows in his gaze causing a chill to run down her spine.

"Run, Nura," he orders, and she knows he intends to stay, intends to show these people what happens when they abuse the people he loves.

Nura grabs his hand and pulls him with her, not giving him the choice to enact vengeance. They run. They don't look back at the angry mob they break free of, they just run. Nura doesn't think about anything but keeping her feet moving and her hand in Rephas'.

She doesn't know if they follow, she doesn't care. They sprint through the village, the scarce lanterns struggling to illuminate their way.

They reach the stables where their horses are tied. Nura's foot gets caught in her dress as she tries to step into the stirrup and she pulls it up. That small moment allows her to hear the running feet of some of the villagers.

Nura drags herself onto the horse's back, her hands shaking as she grips the reins and whips them, Rephas right by her side. They tear out of the stables and race down the street, leaving behind the angry shouts.

They've always wanted to blame her for the killings, but now they have solid reasoning to drown her in tar.

The cold wind makes her eyes stream and she struggles to see ahead of her, only listening to the pounding hooves of Rephas' horse as a guide.

She still can't look back, can't bring herself to accept that the people she has given so much of herself to would turn on her so quickly. She doesn't want to accept that hatred runs so deeply within their hearts that they refuse to see her. She can't.