DAME FOR A DAY | PK

[zuziee 4004]

 

 

The Countess of Revedin

Circa. 2006

 

Philippa stepped out of her family cottage to find Karoslund blanketed in the gentlest snowfall. The flakes floated down like featherlight whispers, brushing against her skin and melting softly into the warmth still radiating from the earth. Dawn had only just begun to break, painting the quiet village in a pale glow. From her stoop, she watched as the world slowly stirred: birds darted past snow-capped evergreens, their distant songs the only sound in the otherwise hushed landscape. She was always the first to rise.

 

The early stillness called to her, not just as a habit, but as a sanctuary. There was comfort in these secret hours before anyone else awoke, before she had to become the person the world expected her to be. Her hands fumbled inside the deep pocket of her coat until her fingers closed around the familiar shape of her matchbox and cigarette tin. This ritual was hers alone. She struck the match against the cottage wall. The brief flare of flame was golden and warm before it was consumed by the grayness of morning. The tip of the Reinmaren cigarette caught fire. She inhaled deeply, the smoke curling from her lips into the winter air, indistinguishable from the mist of her breath.

 

Every morning as she lit up, her mind returned to that first cigarette. After the long and wretched d’Arkent dinner. A silent rebellion. A moment alone. She had never truly shaken the habit, not after all these years, and she understood now, perhaps too well, why Achillius smoked the way he did. As the acrid warmth filled her lungs, she wondered: had he ever quit?

 

Philippa kept the habit hidden, like so many other pieces of herself. She smoked only at dawn or twilight, times of in-between, where secrets clung more easily to the fading light. With the cigarette now spent, she pressed the stub into the heel of her boot and let it extinguish. She tugged her long fur coat closer around her body and turned to head inside, but paused. A passing instinct brought her toward the post. Inside the wooden box were the usual parcels: a small jar of honey from the Weisses, a letter from Siegmunda. But tucked within the stack was something else. Her brow furrowed. A formal envelope. Unmarked save for the wax crest of the Waldenic Diet. Her heart skipped. She tore it open, unfolding the transcript with shaking hands. Her eyes scanned the parchment once. Then again. A third time, just to be certain.

 

"The vote passed, 5–0, unanimous as 2 seats remain vacant."

 

The words blurred slightly as her breath hitched. After more than two decades, it had passed. The knighthood was hers. Not promised, not pledged, confirmed. And yet there was no swelling of pride. No elation. No imagined trumpets. Only a weight. A heaviness that settled in her chest like packed snow. Her shoulders slumped. What came instead was silence. And a single name. Malcolm. No one inside knew yet, not her husband, not the children still warm in their beds. The flicker of guilt that tried to rise in her chest was quickly buried. She had given them everything. Molded herself again and again to fit the shapes expected of her. But this, this had always been hers.

 

Rather than announce it, she folded the letter, tucking it inside her coat like something sacred. She would write Malcolm first. Not a word to anyone until then.

_________

 

A flaxen-haired man stood at the edge of the Kovachev’s plot, posture taut with unease. His shoulders were square, but the tension in his stance betrayed the nerves he couldn’t quite suppress. Through the frost-glazed window of her cottage, Philippa caught sight of him. Her heart jumped. Without a moment’s hesitation, she threw on her coat and stepped outside, her boots crunching softly against the fresh snow. Her breath billowed in the chill air like smoke.

 

Before she could even greet him, he spoke. “Prevja, Philippa. Ea received your letter.”

 

She faltered on the stoop, caught off guard. “Ich was just about to ride for Alba,” she said quickly, her voice catching in her throat. She descended the steps, slow and measured, as her eyes darted left and right. It wasn’t fear, but a deep, familiar unease. She hadn’t expected to see him. Not here.

 

Malcolm visibly relaxed when she didn't meet him with scorn. The breath he released seemed to thaw something in his chest, his posture softening by degrees. “Well, er… eam glad ea came, since ea don’t live in Alba,” he said awkwardly. He hesitated, as if sifting through a dozen thoughts, before finally landing on, “What can ea do for vy?”

 

Philippa looked away for a moment, then back. “Ich… Ich panicked.” The words were small, but honest.

 

He nodded, always understanding. “Da. So what has happened? How may ea help vy niet be panicked?”

 

Philippa pressed her lips into a thin line, then finally met his gaze. “The Diet voted. Finally. My knighthood’s been approved. I’m to take the oath.” Her hands lifted slightly in a helpless gesture. “But… Ich don’t know how to swear that oath and mean it. Not here. Not in a place so still. So… stagnant. A dead-end.” Her fists clenched at her sides. “It was foolish, writing you. But Ich thought… maybe you’d understand. Ich guess…” she trailed off with a breath.

 

Malcolm didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let her words hang there before responding. “Da. Ea understand vyr fear,” he said softly. “But why do vy think vy can’t take the oath in Karoslund? Be a proper Vander Knight, da?”

 

Philippa’s reply came quickly, almost reflexively. “To be a Vander Knight in a place corrupted by the Red Faith… It’s wrong.” Her voice did not shake. The conviction had been settled in her long ago. Long before Karoslund, before Balian, before even Haense. Few knew the vow she’d made beneath the ancient Aschenbaum, but that vow burned brighter than anything else.

 

Malcolm considered her, the silence thick between them. “Do vy value this place more than the dream vy’ve held your whole life?” he asked. Then, after a pause, “Or… would Varon…” his eyes flicked toward the cottage, “would he move, for vy?”

 

A flicker of frustration shadowed her face. Her hand dragged down her cheek, lips tightening. “To be honest… Ich never really believed I’d be knighted. Even after all these years.” She looked away. “Ich set it aside. I came here out of loyalty.” Her voice turned bitter. “But you and Ich both know where my loyalty’s always been. The Diet. My people.”

 

Malcolm’s voice was gentler this time. “Vy were always honorable like that, Philippa. Vy know ea left my home because of what ea believed in? Is that why vy wrote me, after all this time?”

 

Philippa’s arms folded tightly. “Ja. Exactly. Ich want to swear fealty to the Vandelore. I always have.” Her voice caught, softened. “But… how did you do it? How did you leave your family?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Malcolm admitted. “Back then, I thought John was wrong. Staying would’ve meant fighting against my faith. That… I couldn’t do it. I hoped others would follow, Aleksandr, Calliope, but no one did. It was just me.”

 

Philippa’s eyes darkened. “Primrose was the only reason Ich stayed. But she’s gone now.” She hesitated. “Calliope made it in the end. Her marriage brought her to Numendil. Ich saw her recently.”

 

Malcolm nodded faintly. “Ea haven’t seen her since ea left. Only mea mamej.” He paused. “Are all the Kortreviches gone too?”

 

“Practically,” Philippa answered. “Andrei and Prim are dead. My sister-in-law’s still around, but she’s married to the Norland king.”

 

Malcolm’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Da. Ea saw Dima’s announcement.” His gaze lowered at the mention of Primrose. “Does Varon niet keep vy here?”

 

Philippa caught the shadow crossing his face, his grief for her oldest friend. Her lips began to tremble. “Ich… Ich suppose.”

 

“And vyr children?”

 

She softened. “You know of them?”

 

“Ea saw the parchment about Hana.”

 

Philippa exhaled. “She’s nearly a teenager now. Always darting about. But Ich can’t wait anymore. The oath, it’s now or never.” Her voice lowered. “Sounds selfish, doesn’t it?”

 

“Will they stay with Varon?”

 

“They’re Kovachevs. Not Reuss. They belong here. Not in Reinmar.” Her head shook slowly. “Ich can’t ask them to leave. And Ich can’t bring the children.” She swallowed, eyes brimming. “Ich just… Ich want someone to tell me it’s okay. To leave it all behind. Everything Ich’ve built. To keep the promise Ich made as a girl.”

 

Malcolm had stepped closer. His voice dropped into something solemn, unwavering. “It’s okay to leave what you’ve built, if it means walking the path that’s truly yours.” He breathed deeply. “But—if ea could go back, ea might not have done it. Ea would rather have died a soldier in John’s war than spend decades in exile, unable to meet my kin’s eyes.”

 

“It’s been lonely. Hard. But it may not be the same for vy. Vy’d have the Vanders.” He hesitated. “And… vy’d have me.”

 

Her breath caught. The words struck first as comfort, then as ache. “After all these years… Ich think they’d forgive vy. Truly,” she whispered. She hoped he’d understand that she had forgiven him, too. “And Ich’d have purpose again. Something more than cleaning dishes. We both know what a waste that’s been.”

 

“Vy’ve already made vyr choice,” Malcolm said gently. “Just listen to how vy speak.” He tilted his head. “So where will vy go? It won’t be Reinmar. That’s not your home.”

 

Philippa shifted her weight, uncertain. “Maybe Reinmar. That’s where the Vandelore sits. So… that’s where Ich should go, no?”

 

Malcolm raised a brow. “Vy don’t like Reinmar?”

 

“Not sure it’s about liking it anymore,” she said. “It’s about the people Ich want to serve.”

 

He nodded. “Vy don’t have to live there to serve him. Vy just want to live in a Canonist place, niet?”

 

“Ja. Maybe they’ll let me return to Velen.” Her weight from one leg to the other, her voice steady yet uncertain. Memory swept through her like a quiet wind as they continued their conversation into the night, like old friends rediscovering what was once lost. Her admiration for him had always been… different. Ever since that long-ago ball, when she still smelled of river mud. Perhaps she still did, even now, after all these years in Karoslund. If Malcolm noticed, he never said.

 

Yet this moment, this fragile, flickering joy between them, was just that. A moment. They would not meet again before fate claimed the poor Reuss.

_________

 

Philippa returned to her cottage that evening winded and flushed, the salty wind still clinging to her skin like memory. The scent of the sea had stirred something long dormant within her, a part of herself she’d buried, lied about, even to Varon. But she felt no remorse for her sudden departure from Karoslund earlier that day. Instead, she stepped back into her home with a strange serenity, greeted by the familiar rhythms of domestic life.

 

Hana was nestled in her usual perch, legs curled up beneath her as she read, glasses slipping slightly down her nose. Agnes and Nikolas sat hunched over a game of checkers, mid-contest, while Linde barreled toward her the moment she entered, arms thrown wide. The child’s embrace and the laughter that followed struck Philippa’s heart like sunlight through frost, melting the cold edges she hadn’t realized she was still carrying.

 

By the sink stood Varon, ever steady, sleeves rolled up as he rinsed the supper dishes. He looked as he always did from behind, broad, composed, and tireless. He turned briefly at the sound of her entrance, offering a soft smile before returning to the clatter of plates and water. It was a meal she had missed.

 

Philippa kicked off her boots with practiced ease, shedding her jacket and gloves soon after. She hung them by the door, next to five other coats that told the story of their household. Then she bent low, cupping Linde’s face in her hands, peppering her with kisses, soft, playful, relentless ones that pulled squeals of laughter from the girl’s lips.

 

The rest of the evening passed without disruption. Philippa, seasoned in the subtle art of concealment, carried herself with such habitual grace that none of her children, nor Varon, noticed anything amiss. She tucked each of the four into bed with the same affection as always, her hands gentle, her words warm.

 

But once the house quieted, her hands found the quill. She drafted three letters:

 

The first, addressed to Ser Manfred, was a formal request to take her oath: the culmination of everything.

 

The second was for Malcolm. She would only send it if Manfred replied.

 

And the third… the third she wrote for herself alone. No eyes but hers would see it. Something in her bones whispered that fate had never called more clearly. She had to go. Everything in her life had led to this.

 

As she finished the final strokes of ink, Varon emerged from the children's room, closing the door behind him with a tired sigh. He stood in the doorway for a moment, eyeing her quietly, then spoke.

 

“Letters to Siegmunda?” he asked casually, already halfway to their shared bedroom.

 

Philippa gave him a soft smile and a nod. “Ja, of course. Sleep well.”

 

“You as well, dear,” he replied, disappearing behind the closing door.

 

Silence settled over her.

 

She sat for hours at the table, watching the lone candle on the table flicker and drip molten wax into the pool forming at its base. Shadows danced across the walls of the modest home, flickering across brushstrokes of old canvases. Her eyes roamed over them, the paintings she’d poured herself into over the years. Once, they had offered refuge. Now, they felt like relics of a version of herself that no longer existed. Unfinished works. Obligations, not passions.

 

Her gaze eventually fell on one piece, set apart from the rest, covered in a black cloth. Grief welled up in her chest. Tears rimmed her eyes. Before retreating to bed, Philippa sealed the letter to Ser Manfred, sent it off without hesitation, and then smoked another cigarette on the stoop of her home. 

_________

 

Time passed without reply. Days bled into nights, and still there was no word from Ser Manfred. Philippa grew anxious, restless. Each sunset added weight to her chest. Then, one night, when all the children were tucked into bed and Varon’s gentle breathing signaled his sleep, she rose. Quiet as snowfall, she slipped out the front door, leaving her jacket behind. She carried only her practice sword, a bow, and a few paltry arrows. Her horse waited faithfully at the side of the house, his breath rising in slow clouds as she grasped the cool, dew-slick reins.

 

She rode alone beneath the starlit sky, her path winding steadily northward to Reinmar.

 

Upon arrival, she found them gathered: Prince Erwin of Reinmar stood surrounded by warriors, knights, and captains who fell into a hush at her approach. She hesitated only a moment before stepping forward, chainmail whispering out each step. 

 

“Philippa von Reuss,” Prince Erwin called, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “Or rather, Dame Philippa von Reuss, I should say. What brings you before me today?”

 

Philippa bowed her head low, reverent. Though still clad in the modest garb of a squire, her voice did not waver. “I’ve tried time and time again to reach Ser Manfred,” she said. “But to no avail. So I’ve come to pledge my oath directly to you, Your Highness, as Vandelore.”

 

The prince gave a thoughtful grunt, one brow arching as he studied her. “Hrmph… Then perhaps I should grant you a little pomp and circumstance, hm? What would a knighting be without it?” His voice, though amused, carried the ceremony beneath the jest. With a sweep of his gloved hand, he turned and gestured grandly. “Let us make the castle.”

 

Together, they entered the hall, its vaulted ceilings, towering banners, and echoing footsteps lending grandeur to every motion. As they walked, Prince Erwin leaned slightly toward her. “Pay no mind to the warriors and captains lining the way,” he murmured. “They are here to bear witness to the moment.”

 

Philippa couldn’t help the faint grin that tugged at her lips. Though trained to keep her expression stony, something childlike stirred inside her, a pride long denied. She gave a quiet, amused exhale. “Surely,” she muttered. At the center of the hall, beneath the dias, Philippa stepped forward and dropped to one knee as instructed by the Prince. She drew in a deep breath. Her back was straight. Her chin lifted.

 

Prince Erwin stepped before her, drawing the ceremonial sword. “Repeat after me,” he said, voice ringing across the stone.

 

And so she spoke:

 

“Beneath the mantle of the Vander Knights' embrace, I, Philippa Reuss, step forth in solemn grace. Chosen by destiny to join their noble ranks, to safeguard Waldenic souls, in unity that stands.”

 

Her voice grew bolder with each line.

 

“With resolute devotion, I pledge my sword. To honor the Sacred Law, by which we are moored. In service to the Vander Code, my heart aflame, I shall shield the Waldenic People, in honor and acclaim. Bound by duty, I stand as their stalwart shield, defending the Waldenic Diet, our common weal. May the Sacred Law guide my steps, pure and true. As a Vander Knight, my purpose is forever anew. In unity with my brethren, an unbreakable bond. Together we shall defend, till eternity beyond.”

 

Prince Erwin laid the blade gently on her shoulder. “Then rise, Dame Philippa von Reuss. You are now of our order.”

 

The hall answered with a single, thunderous clap. Philippa stood. Not with uncertainty. Not as a squire. Not as a mother, or an orphan, or an artist. She stood as a knight.

_________

 

Philippa was meant to be heading home. The day had grown long, and dusk hung low in the sky like a veil. The oath had been made, the final errands run. Only one stop remained, a small detour through the marshes to check a root cluster she had long been cultivating. It was a quiet act, meditative. She arched a brow as a figure approached, clearly not expecting company in the marshes at this hour. She had been stopped at the base of a tree, likely tending to roots, perhaps gathering herbs or seed bulbs. With a final glance downward, she rose to her full height, gaze sharpening. Above her, a murder of crows burst into flight, their wings slicing through the muggy air. The stench of rot thickened.

 

From the gloom stepped a figure clad in dark fabrics, its robe dragging over wet earth. The thing stopped just short of her, eyes dull and distant, yet locked onto hers without blinking. The crows above settled again in the trees behind them, their silence unnatural, watchful. A rasping voice spilled from beneath the hood. “Shadows grow long behind you.” With a slow ceremony, the figure produced a tome from within its sleeve.

 

Philippa’s nose twitched at the souring air. Her expression twisted. “Sun’s set,” she muttered, rising taller as she faced the stranger.

 

The silence returned, deeper than before. Then the voice again: “Tell me. What name do you carry?” As the question hung in the air, another sound arose, soft, mournful, like wailing carried by the wind. It was inhuman. Distant. Like the cries of the damned.

 

Philippa’s arms spread wide, one hand gripping a curved blade, the other still holding a bundle of roots. “Philippa,” she answered cautiously. “Are you… Lost?” Her eyes flicked left, then right.

 

“Do you believe in God?” the figure asked, its voice low and cold. “Do you believe He watches? That He protects?”

 

The tome opened in the stranger’s hands, and at once, a glow shimmered beneath Philippa’s boots. Her breath caught. She shifted. “Ja. Of course. He watches. For certain.” Her tone was firm, but the way her stance shifted betrayed the unease clawing into her chest.

 

The glow pulsed again, brighter. A taloned hand rose. From the ground, crimson tendrils of malflame burst upward, coiling at her feet, hungry. The air thickened. The wailing rose in pitch. “If He watches,” the figure asked, voice rising, “then why does He allow you to stand before me?”

 

Philippa staggered back as the fire licked her boots. “W-What is this?” she barked. “What are you doing?”

 

“If He protects you,” the Shepherd thundered, “why has He not come?”

 

The glow erupted. A column of malflame engulfed her. It was not fire. It was hatred, sentient, searing, alive. Her scream echoed, torn from her chest raw. Chainmail melted. Her lungs filled with blistered air. Her body trembled, and she fell to her knees. Philippa gasped. Her lips parted, a name, a prayer, but no sound followed. Her body fell sideways, and something in her began to unspool.

 

In her final breaths, she did not think of vengeance. She thought of Linde. Of orchids. Of Varon. Of Malcolm. 

 

The Shepherd approached, unmoved. His tome vanished; a spear took its place. “What God permits this?” he muttered. “What God turns away?” He stood over her. “I hear only silence whilst you lay her... suffering.” Her body twitched, barely conscious. She gasped for air. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” he said. “This flame knows no mercy. I know it well.” He crouched low. “But I can end it. I can spare you.” 

 

Philippa’s eyes flared. For a heartbeat, she welcomed the end. But clarity came too late. “No-” she rasped. 

 

He waited. Then he drove the spear down. “How benevolent am I?”

 

Blood gushed. Her mouth opened in silence. Then, she was still. 

Spoiler

OOC:
 

RP-wise, her cause of death is unknown, but it is commonly known that she is dead, so if you’d like to interact w this post, u totally can! 

 

I’d like to thank everyone who made Philippa such a well-written character for me to play!! She’ll always have a special place in my heart. Special thanks to those who rped with me for this post, and ofc to luxy-pie <3

 

[Herod 1417]

A week had passed since the lifeless body of his wife had been found in the terrible woods of Norland.

A grieving soul stood with lifeless eyes in his backyard, vivid memories of a happier, warmer season did not come to his manic mind. His hands quickened the rope to tie a noose as soon as it began to rain.

He dragged a chair without any willpower across the grounds he took a sharp look at the empty garden, places of happiness now felt like nothing. Elegantly the man raised himself upwards to the rope and simply stood. His pathetic life, he considered, would be a parable of a misery turned to triumph and a quick relapse to a long and slow misery. He could not abide it again.

He closed his eyes and raised his chin above the rope and then, hesitation struck. The first sign of life, and with it, memories of Philippa's eyes. His hands tightened and shook around the rope, as if struck by madness. A child's sob was heard from afar in his household and the Kovachev knew that for now, he had to endure. Be it to avenge the soul of what was the love of his life, or the betterment of his what was ever left of his family. 

"Odi et Amo, Excrucior."

[Cheese 8882]

It took a few day for the news to reach Esfir's ears. When the courier bid news from the Countess, the d'Arkent woman beamed. Her darling Philippa had written! Eagerly the letter was opened and the Duchess scanned over it. As the words met her eyes, her expression fell. Philippa, dead? No. No. It couldn't be. That was her daughter, her child in every way but blood.

 

Once the realization hit, Esfir came crashing down within the Sunholdt Manor. She cried; she wailed. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Children were not supposed to leave first; that was not the natural order. Philippa wasn't meant to die. She wasn't meant to leave.

 

In the following days, the Duchess-Emeritus was seen a wreck in the halls of Lotharia. For several nights she sat below the portrait of the late von Reuss that hung in her home, clutching an old hairbrush to her chest. Oh, for how far Philippa had been the past several years, no distance could ever amount to how far away Esfir's daughter was now.

[Frawlic 1602]

Dima would hear the news in passing, and maybe that is what made it hurt even more. Her sister-in-law, dead. Her brother, alone. The once-Dame knew Philippa as a fighter; she had once fronted the same lines as her. She knew that Philippa was loyal, ever so, and that she fought until the very end, that she did not leave with purpose, but rather lived with one.

Perhaps they should have had more dinners, talked about Primrose more. The Kortrevich would not dress Philippa's children for her, but she would make sure they had a family. Another candle was set beside Primrose's, green wax. How many people would she outlive? Was she not supposed to die first?

[TaraJess 2848]

When had Johanna last seen her? The tavern in Lotharia? There were a group of them there, old Haenseni names that had since been dusted in northern snow. She was there with a child, her own, for which Johanna had mistaken for Dima's, damn Kovachev genetics... Where did Johanna run off to that day? What was so important that she could not even properly say goodbye to one of her oldest friends? Was it not Philippa who she drank with? Swapped courtship stories with? Drunkly threatened to beat up Malcolm for breaking her heart the next time she saw him? What was so important that she didn't say goodbye to her?

[TheHeftyDonut 706]

Where Siegmunda of Velen now resided was quiet that morning—no rain, clouds, or farmers working in the wheat fields. There was only a calm breeze, and the birds sang their song throughout the day—all was well. A soft-spoken maid came to her side, handing over the sealed parchment, a smile as she noticed the seal: Philippa. There was a sense of dread, a dark cloud hovering over the maid as she stepped back, awaiting Lady Siegmunda's response.

It only took the first phrase for her eyes to slowly swell with tears. Siegmunda stared, reading the penning over and over again, pleading in her head for the subject of the letter to change.
Although some tears fell, she kept her back turned to those around her, wiping the tears from her face before she turned and walked silently back inside her home. Her pride overcame her in that moment; she didn't wish for anyone to see her pain.

The lady of Velenic origin sighed heavily as she entered a small room, placing the parchment on a nearby desk. Images of the little girl she saw grow flashed before her—the young, honorable woman who wrote letters to her every week. Siegmunda remembered walking that same young woman down the aisle.

"Philippa... gone?" Siegmunda mumbled as she leaned over the back of a rocking chair. "Lord... what sin?—What sin have I committed against Thee that has forced You to take them all?"

She paused.

"What have I not already given? What suffering have You not put me through?" she called out, still mumbling. Then she moved to sit in the chair, rocking slowly, and she reached over to hold onto a small open box filled with letters that she began to dig through and read, smiling softly as she rocked, reading over the past letters sent from her niece.

Hours later, a small, flickering vision. A girl standing in the doorway. Brown hair. Stern eyes. A knowing smile. A hand outstretched.

Siegmunda's gaze shifted upward, then away from those letters she read, lifting herself out from the chair. An expression of shock washed over the elderly woman's features as she looked at the child. "Philippa? W-Where are we going?" Siegmunda took the girl's hand, and then she experienced a flash of light.

Siegmunda remained in that chair. She hadn't left the chair for hours—not for water, food, or social matters, whisper the maids of her home. They found her in the chair, deceased, with no signs of pain.

She was heartbroken by the loss of all her loved ones… not sure of any other Velenic relatives she had left. Though reunited with her loved ones in the Seven Skies, writing letters to her dearest Philippa

[LuxyLucy 691]

A little girl played with her doll in front of her small cottage home, a hop here, a skip there, a flutter of giggles and laughter. Before her gaze rose to see her grandmother before her. The woman approached, looking down at her with reddened eyes and a demeanor wrought with sadness.

 

Linde Illena Kovachev would hurriedly raise a gloved hand and give a cheery wave up to the woman. "Hiii Hauchmamej!" the girl would chirp out, "Why're you sad?" She'd murmur along curiously, perking her brows. "Don't worry! Mutter will be back soon, I'm sure you can adulty talk with her!"

 

Esfir Artemisia d'Arkent would pause as she gazed upon the ignorance of the young girl, her brows creasing as she'd move to kneel down before the girl, forcing a strained smile. "Eja, love. I just...- Something sad happened. But-" The woman would glance around, before bringing her gaze back down to the girl. "Where is your Papej? Is he about?"

 

Linde Illena Kovachev would gently hug the doll in her arms, tilting her gaze as she looked towards the woman as she crouched before her, the smile on her features remained as she lightly swayed side to side before her. "Mmm! Vader left the adult meeting in a hurry, and I haven't seen him since! I've just been waiting out here for them to get home, I like to greet Mutter at the door!"

 

Esfir Artemisia d'Arkent would seem to choke on her words before she could force them out. "You are so sweet to do that, Linde.. Do you- think perhaps you'd like to wait inside, out of the cold?"

 

Linde Illena Kovachev would lower her gaze then for a moment to her doll, speaking a few soft words to it. "Wanna go inside Kareena?" She'd question along softly, gently herd hand moved the doll, so it'd give a nod, before she'd raise her gaze back up to her grandmother as she'd give her own nod in response. "I love them! But - okayyy, we can go inside, mmm it's been getting very cold recently, so Mutter's been making me wear more bundles." She would then slowly begin to twirl upon her boots as if she were a little dancer, before prancing her way off towards the door of her family's home. "Look at all the pretty orchids, Mutter planted them for me I think, she said it's where my middle name comes from, the Illena Orchid!"

 

Esfir Artemisia d'Arkent swept her hand into the house, gesturing Linde forward as her smile tightened, causing her lips to press into a thinner line. "And exactly right she was to say such, would you like to sit, my dear?"

 

Linde Illena Kovachev would giggle along in her fit of babbles and squeaks as the noisy little girl scurried her way along further into her home, climbing her way up to a middle seat on the far end of the table. "Okie Dokie Hauchmamej!" She'd chime along in response, struggling to climb atop of the stool but eventually succeeding, as she'd settle her little doll onto the table.

 

Esfir Artemisia d'Arkent was slow in her steps, heavy on the hardwood floors as she trailed Linde further into the house. Once the girl had found herself a seat at the table, she would kneel on the floor to meet her at eye level once more. It was uncomfortable for her considering her age, but more than that, her hand was trembling. Slowly, she inhaled, before the d'Arkent forced herself to speak. "Linde, my sweet girl, there is... something you ought to know. You- your Papej should probably be the one to speak of it, but considering his... absence right now.. It might be better if I tell you."

 

Linde Illena Kovachev would twirl herself atop the seat, scooting around to face Esfir, she'd tilt her head, a curious gaze plastered upon her scrunched up little features as her gloved hands lightly fidgeted with the fabrics, her little nose lightly tapping at her upper lip as she'd take in a breath. "Mmm, what's wrong Hauchmamej?" She'd murmur along softly in turn. "Mmm, oh! Oh! Are we going to be sharing secrets!? I like secrets! Mutter showed me a secret hidey spot!"

 

Esfir Artemisia d'Arkent upon the realization that she was actually going to have to deliver the news, the color began to drain from her face; she looked sick. Her trembling hand reached for Linde's and held it tightly. "...It is your Mutter, dear," The woman choked out, tears beginning to well in the eyes that had already seemed to have cried buckets that day. "She has..- She has been taken to the Seven Skies."

 

Linde Illena Kovachev gazed up towards Esfir, lightly swaying her legs along as she inspected her features, her brows perking as she witnessed the discoloration taking place, as her shaky hand took up the young girl's lithe gloved hand. A light tilt of her head then as the mention of her mother was spoke. "What about Mutter?" She'd murmur along, her smile fading as she looked quizzically towards the woman as tears were forming upon Esfirs eyes. The child seemed lost for words. "Mmm, mmm! Why would she go there?" She'd question along softly in response, scrunching her brows, a lack of understanding. "When does she get back, tomorrow?"

 

Esfir Artemisia d'Arkent would bite down hard on her lip, her head hanging low as she listened to Linde's innocent response. A shaky, almost strangled exhale escaped the woman, before she brought herself to whisper again. "Mutter will... Niet be coming back, anytime soon. She-" The next words that came were bitter, and barely disguised the sob that caught her throat. "She has died, sweet Linde."

 

Linde Illena Kovachev would look confused, her features scrunched as she nervously kicked her legs against each other, her hands still fidgeting, as if she were digging at her nails, though the gloves blocked her antics from harm, her gaze lowered a bit as she took in a deep inhale. "Mmm... What's." She'd mumble along, her own voice becoming weak, filled with worry. "What do you mean...?" She'd murmur out meakly. "I just saw her- Why, why would she go away and not come back." She'd whimper out in response, her cheeks shifting as her teeth bit into her gums as she twisted her hands into knuckles, huffing and setting them on her lap. "Why would she go byebye, I wasn't bad... I did my chores, no monsters are supposed to come if you do your chores!"

 

Esfir Artemisia d'Arkent "Oh, my girl..." Her breath hitched, and at that point there was no stopping the tears she had fought so hard to keep back. Esfir wrapped Linde in a tight hug, should she allow such, as she sought to comfort the child. "Mutter did niet mean to leave, I promise you. She did niet want to, I know it." The Emeritus sniffled, wiping at the tears with her hand as she continued. "And you certainly did nothing wrong. The monsters did niet come because of you. We just-" And then, she trailed off. Even she was at a partial loss for how to address Philippa's death.

 

Linde Illena Kovachev would let out a meak whimper, the spirited young girl was quiet, her features lowered as her hands grew still, legs dangling aimlessly from atop of her stool as she would sniffle, her small form wrapped into a tight hug by Esfir as the girl sat there with a pout. "Then why.. Mutters aren't supposed to leave! Mmm... My friends! They have; they have their Mutters!" She'd let out with a frustrated tone, her cheeks trembling. "It's not fair!" She'd wail out.

 

Esfir Artemisia d'Arkent sat in silence for a good few minutes, allowing both herself and the now motherless Kovachev to sob in their grief. When Esfir brought herself to a modicum of composure, she murmured, "Nie, Linde... It's niet fair. Mothers aren't supposed to leave." Perhaps those words were spoken bitterly in themselves, but the concern was still greatly on the topic of death. "It is... Going to be hard sometimes, and it will be sad... But even if you nie longer have your Mutter-" Esfir pulled back some to look upon the girl properly. "You will have your Papej, and your siblings, and me. And we will love you, and be there for you... And I will niet leave for a very, very long time."

 

Linde Illena Kovachev would stay there quiet for a long while, she was pouting, tears forming upon her features as they'd roll down her cheeks, drip, drop, drip, drop as they'd fall onto her gloved hands, leaving the material wet in her sadness. A croak and a raspy breath as dribbles of snot would begin to flow down and out of her nose, leveling out upon her upper lip, before going down further. "But..." She'd murmur out weakly, her words were weak in heartbreak. "I want. I want.. I.." She'd pause then, as the girl would erupt into a fit, a childish tantrum as she scrunched her features further, brows furrowed as her little hands clenched before she'd then wail out loudly. "I WANT MUTTER!"

 

Esfir Artemisia d'Arkent would wince as the shriek split through her ears from the close proximity. But even then, the weary d'Arkent kept as calm as she could, considering the mascara that stained her own cheeks. "...I know, Linde." She whispered. "There is...-" A blink, before she reconsidered her words. "We will miss her a lot, and she will miss you too. It is... Okay to be sad right now while we do miss her."

 

Linde Illena Kovachev would subside in her tantrum, wailing voice quieting as she'd lean herself forward, collapsing against Esfir as she'd simply sob against the woman. "I want... I - I want Mutter back..." She'd murmur out, before the sound of three soft knocks upon the door of that crying home, her gaze being brought to that door as her crying would stop... Hope?  "M-Maybe, it's Mutter!" She'd hurriedly speak out, as she was then scooped up into Esfir's arms and carried towards the door as the puffy cheeked sobbing girl clung to the woman, as they approached the door.

 

But there was no hope, no wish to be spoken beneath a shooting star, her mother was gone. And all she could do, all that little girl could do was crumple to the floor and gaze upon the portrait of her mother, how long would it be till her only memory of her mother's face, was that 2D portrayal of her hanging upon the dining room wall.

 

Spoiler

 

I wish there was more time these two could have had together, but thank you Bestziee for letting me play your daughter <3

 

[MissToni 3565]

Kareena watched as her little dove flew gracefully towards the seven skies. Her arms grew open wide to welcome her, she had grown so much since last. She gazed into her daughter's eyes "Welcome home sweetling, you should have had more time. But you finally realized your dream, even if it didn't last long. Now you can rest"