( He looks no smaller for the absence of his armor -- there is strength in the set of his jaw that lends his face towards stubbornness, but that she knew of already. But her first clear look at his face is not what she expected from a man she has come to verbal blows with again and again. Not that Ysayle knew what to expect from the man under the helm, only that fine features was not it.

Her lips purse as she strides closer to him, footfalls echoing on the strange medal that makes up most of this place. But her eyes do not linger on him long; instead focusing on the expanse of sky where she had gone to her death, desperately, willingly.

Ysayle knows, suddenly and with an aching clarity, that they stand in the same place for the first time. Perhaps it is presumptuous on her end to think of it as such, but what other way was there? Life after the war -- the only thing that had defined them now gone. All truths they might have clung to stripped away from them.

It is an uncomfortable feeling, one she has been wrestling with alone. And does not know how to voice, but it is Estinien. She doubts he knows how, ether. )

Nor wouldst you be subject to it if there were dead to give flowers to, although the surprising gesture does not go unappreciated.