She presses his shoulder lightly like a reassurance when she levers herself up off the floor; crosses the short distance to her desk and does not need to search for long to find what she's looking for, opening a slim wooden box that sits at the back of it (almost decoratively,) and removing the top-most folded missive. When she brings it back to him, it has already — in the time since it arrived — been folded and unfolded often enough to have grown soft at its edges.
Pressing the letter into his hands, she says, “I don't think she would understand what I want to fight with her about.”
And she does still, sort of, want to fight with her; news of Casimir's death had broken over her like a wave, hauling away the tide and leaving anger in its place. So much waste. So much loss. For what? Fuck her precious fucking Chantry—
Please don't go, she'd written. Among those losses: the time to have it out.
no subject
She presses his shoulder lightly like a reassurance when she levers herself up off the floor; crosses the short distance to her desk and does not need to search for long to find what she's looking for, opening a slim wooden box that sits at the back of it (almost decoratively,) and removing the top-most folded missive. When she brings it back to him, it has already — in the time since it arrived — been folded and unfolded often enough to have grown soft at its edges.
Pressing the letter into his hands, she says, “I don't think she would understand what I want to fight with her about.”
And she does still, sort of, want to fight with her; news of Casimir's death had broken over her like a wave, hauling away the tide and leaving anger in its place. So much waste. So much loss. For what? Fuck her precious fucking Chantry—
Please don't go, she'd written. Among those losses: the time to have it out.