Carnival of rust

With no one wearing their real face It's a whiteout of emotion

Shaking her head, Maea's smile was lopsided and apologetic, about as disappointed in herself as Thal was. "I remember what you said, but I can't swear the actual meaning is what you meant to convey. When I think back, what I recall is a tangle of hurt feelings and defensiveness - being told I'm not good enough, basically. Even if you were right, when I try to pick out what you really needed from me, it's like picking a single strand of yarn from a wadded up tangle. All of it comes with." Popping a fragment of the cured meat into her mouth, the taste of salt on her tongue cut through the sweetness, reminding her all over again that she really was hungry. "But, I see. Honesty, huh. It shouldn't be too difficult." Of course, her honesty hadn't helped them much in the past. She could speak her truths and it still wouldn't fix anything if Thalassa found them offensive, or painful, if they kept driving wedges between them. And as the younger Ancient refused to share anything of her own life, Maea had to wonder if there was any will at all to even try and bridge this ravine carved between them.
"I see. Then, I won't bother you anymore tonight –"

A sense of movement drew her gaze to the ground. Impossibly, a rose was sprouting right before her eyes, perfectly red and gold-dusted. Barely an inch away from stretched out feet, unawares of the horrible impracticality of its timing in appearing here, now, in this company. Maea broke off, staring in numb disbelief for a moment; then she was launching out of her seat, diving for the Rose with arms outstretched. To pluck it, to protect it – whichever proved most necessary.

And I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall

Maea