At the end of it all, Jillian returned his gaze with moistly shimmering eyes and pale, parted lips somewhere between awe and dismay, partly hidden behind the outstretched fingers of her hand. What did one say to that? She thought he might have rebuked her apology, or accepted it and moved on. Never would she have thought that he would voluntarily force himself through all of this very vivid and visible emotion in order to explain to her just how and why he despised his step-father this much and which things had made him the monster he was. It must have been painful to have every accomplishment robbed from oneself by their mere name. Jillian had never thought about the disconnect between an individual and their title and could not truly blame those who would have accredited each of Gerald’s triumphs to his name. It was the natural order of the world to assume that those with meaningful names did impactful things and it was all too easy to forget about the person behind the name. Perhaps she could consider herself lucky to have been born into the situation that she was: prosperous enough to have wanted for nothing, but still part of an artisan’s family, wholly separate from the ranks of nobility and power. Nobody whispered her name in hushed tones or with wicked tongues, unless they were of a jealous kind of folks less well off. If it had only been about recognition, however, Gerald’s fate would not have seemed so terrible. What he told her about Remdal was… disturbing, to say the least. A cynical thought in Jillian’s mind wondered if destiny had played a cruel trick on Gerald by making the old man right; if his wife [i]had [/i]been killed by mortal hands, then her soul would still exist today, unclaimed by the Withering as it were. She choked the thought in its infancy.

“No, don’t be,” she asserted vehemently and placed a slender, comforting hand on his bony shoulder and the other on her chest. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I had no idea, Gerald. I just opened my dumb mouth without thinking again.”

“I…” she stammered, unsure what to say. “I’m not sure how to make up for it. I won’t speak that name again, I promise. You know what?” Jillian moved the hand on his shoulder to the other, essentially wrapping her arm around him. “That’s enough opening old wounds for tonight. Let’s calm down and speak of nicer things, yes?”

She affectionately rubbed his shoulder before letting go and placing both of her hands in her lap. Looking into the fire, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames with the same obsessive wonder as when she had first seen something burn, she wondered what to shift the conversation to. Except, there it was, right before her.

“Fire is a beautiful thing, isn’t it? It gives light and warmth, but get too close and try to touch it and you burn yourself. It’s like pricking yourself on a rose.” She snorted an awkward chuckle. “Reina, I sound like some good-for-nothing poet. But I just can’t stop being fascinated by it.”

She remembered being a young girl and instead of playing with her myriad dolls, standing by her father and staring into the heat of the forge and helping him light it when she was a little older. She remembered standing there mesmerized when the Gallard’s home burnt down. She remembered setting fire to Hanna’s bouquet of Daisies when Jonathan gave it to her instead of Jillian. It didn’t matter what you put on fire. Once aglow with the blaze, everything burned equally beautifully.