Cerydra found herself huddled within a cloak, retaining warmth in the midst of the unyielding cold. It’s as nostalgic as is erring on the side of unbearable. The cold that finds its way to etch into the very crevice of the human, inside and out, brings Cerydra to thoughts of childhood spent in familiar biting frost.
Those memories were wholly unwelcome.
She scans her surroundings, attempting to find something worthy of a distraction, and in doing so her eyes spot a most vibrant peach tree amidst a sea of unchanging frost. “Cyrene.” The Imperator calls out the name as if reaching an outstretched hand. She approaches, still wrapped in that very same elegant and proud cloak. “Cyrene…” she repeats the name again, a more desperate tone, as if clutching onto the warm fruit of the tree that now stood before her.
At first, Cerydra holds a focus to the hem of Cyrene’s dress. She studies the fabric, the design, and breaks down everything about that hem, and everything that makes it so uniquely Cyrene. It is familiar in every possibly dissimilar way, and for that it is welcoming. Then, Cerydra’s gaze turns, facing Cyrene's face proper. The face of one who portrayed herself as romanticism down to its very concept, of one who spoke in pretty words, yes, but with such genuine straightforwardness laced in each one.
The face of someone living, that Cerydra considered as a friend.
“You look cold.” She deflected, “would you like to share my cloak? Better to overheat together than to allow one such as yourself to grow frostier by the second. Come.”
The figure of the Imperator may look a touch more imposing were she not shivering, wrapped so tightly within what should sit upon her shoulders like regalia such that it looks more like a blanket. Cyrene is already smiling when their eyes meet, when the call of her name comes to her like a request rather than a command.
"Yes, it's quite frigid."
Because yes, she is cold, but she knows that is not why Cerydra says it. The humor that curls in the corners of her smile is a private thing-- fond, not teasing, an admission of I know without an accusation so outright. "What a generous offer. It would be silly of me to say no~"
Gingerly, Cyrene reaches for the heavy layer's hem, helping to part it so that she might slip beneath. The cloak is quite large, enveloping her easily where she sidles in at the Imperator's shoulder. It's so nice, feeling the warmth of another soul so closely. One that she knows, one that she has gotten the privilege to know as more than just a character in a story for which she has penned hundreds of retellings. One might think the other woman cold, but there has never been a greater testimony otherwise.
Her fingers curl in fabric, draw it closer around them. It is just the slightest incline of her head, to rest her cheek on the flat of the other's collar, a pleased sigh warm on her lips.
"Much better, don't you agree?"
