She feels a certain, unexpected comfort at his words. It is not a straight admittance of failure, sure, but it is a flaw. She is grateful, to feel some of the blame trickle from herself to the magic, though of course she will always blame herself, in the end. For don’t we all believe, in some secret part, that we can love someone into staying alive perpetually?
Still – she will take even the slightest unshifting of her burden.
(She would still have taken Spyndle back flawed, of course. She would take any part of her, no matter how distorted.)
“Thank you,” she says, and her head dips slightly. She is not effusive in her gratitude, but it is there, whether he can perceive it or not.
His next question is slightly unexpected – she had briefly expected the silence to distend – and she shifts her weight, as if considering fleeing.
But no. She aches – of course she aches – but the wounds are decades old now, and she is healed, albeit scarred. She moves forward, even if her gait is often slow.
“Spyndle,” she says, as if she expects him to know who that is. And he might – she knows the magic are immortal, if they so choose – so who knows how many decades or centuries this man has roamed Beqanna?
Still, she is not so foolish, so she adds her clarification, “my wife. I brought her back once, but the second time…nothing.”
It is easier to admit this than she thought. Time does this. She is both grateful and miserable that it is so easy to say her name now.
“What about you?” she asks, “who did you bring back?”
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me
@
Gale