Before we made it to the carts for the trek back to Phandalin, Raph’æl had asked if we could pause a while longer so he could bury the dead. He said it would ease his mind.

I figured it was just another one of those religious rites—ritual for ritual’s sake. But the way he said it… it wasn’t rote. It mattered to him personally.

I admired it, even if I didn’t say so aloud. It was a small window into who he really is, I think. The kind of man who kneels even when no one is watching. The kind of man who doesn’t flinch at the cost of care.

While he began, I stayed behind a moment to scribble down a few notes. Just quick details I didn’t want to forget. Clarity before it all blurred again. Then I tucked my book away and hopped down, thinking maybe I’d go help him. Maybe even ask him more about himself… and about Ilmater; the real Ilmater. Not the shallow martyr the cult painted for me—bloody and distant—but his Ilmater. The one that seemed to be worth following.

I thought I was ready. I wasn’t.

As I rounded the corner of the cart, I stumbled—literally—and nearly yelped.

Raph’æl was already waist-deep in the earth, hard at work digging. But he wasn’t wearing his armor. Or his robes. Both were draped neatly against the cart’s side, like a shed chrysalis. I vaguely remembered him saying something earlier about the heat, about needing to breathe under the sun, but I hadn’t really been listening.

He was shirtless. Jusst just there, in nothing but his trousers, sun on his back, hair swept back, earth clinging to his skin in streaks of effort and devotion, svelte shoulder muscles shifting each time he drove the shovel into the soil, and I—I panicked.

Gods above, I couldn’t just walk over there now! What would I even say?

“Hi, Raph’æl. Nice upper body. Tell me about your god.”

NO.

I froze like an idiot, trapped between reverence and mortification. My face was burning. My hands wouldn’t stop fiddling with the hem of my sleeves.

Why did he have to look like that when doing something so noble? It’s not fair. It’s confusing. It’s him.

I paced back behind the cart and sat down hard, smacking my forehead against my sketchbook like it could knock the nonsense out of me. I cannot—will not—make this a thing. He doesn’t even… I mean… he wouldn’t… or maybe he might but that’s not even the point.

Helping him would be awkward now.

Disastrous.

My brain has completely lost it.

I am a grown woman, not a schoolgirl giggling over the sun-kissed ghost of a high elf with emotional depth and defined arms. Gods. I need help.

I’m going to go splash water on my face.

Maybe dig a grave for my dignity while I’m at it.