Maeve
He seems to take her word and she's glad for it. Maeve means it. She isn't a liar by nature. It just isn't in her to be that way. Something she's sure will be a problem later, but it hasn't hurt her yet. Maeve lets him go, trailing behind him towards the wheelbarrow and pile of sandbags he has to be filled. She understands that having a child is a lot. A whole new life that you're in charge of shaping in molding can be intimidating. That's without the worry of a war or anything else. A household divided by the gods. Maeve doesn't envy him; even though she wants a family, a lover, a house, and a home.
"Blood like yours?" She's not sure what he means, having never heard of the place he's from. Maeve understands. At least a little bit. A pregnancy in her line of work could be life ruining. Unable to work, an absent father, no where to live. Not that Phoebe or she would ever throw out one of their girls, but it wasn't ideal. Maeve takes the bag, holding it open for him as she kneels by the wheelbarrow, knowing the weight of it will be too much for her too hold up long.
Maeve lets out a breath, pursing her own lips as she watches the sand pile into the bag, "I know it isn't ideal, but... but maybe it can be good?" It sounds stupid and she hates that she's saying it. Maeve seals the bag once it's full, moving it with a bit of effort into another pile before opening the next one. "I hope it works out and I hope that your people can be there for you. That Safrin holds up whatever deal she made with you because I don't think you just did this for nothing. Not based on what you said." She doesn't try to find his eyes because she's pretty sure he can't look at her anyway.
She looks down, chewing on her bottom lip as her brows knit together and she really doesn't know if she should speak again. The words tumble out of her anyway. "I'm going to be honest, Jata. The gods scare the shit out of me. I haven't prayed to them since I was a child. I've not been to a shrine. I've never left gifts. None of it. I don't understand it, to be frank. Maybe because I've never had a prayer answered. Maybe because I'm pretty sure they don't fucking care that I exist." Maeve pauses, drawing in a sharp breath as she tries to calm her racing heart. It's the most she's ever said about her beliefs to someone and the nervousness in her belly threatens to make her sick. "But I do hope it works out for you. Really. You... You don't deserve all the bad you've gotten. At least not in my eyes."
"Blood like yours?" She's not sure what he means, having never heard of the place he's from. Maeve understands. At least a little bit. A pregnancy in her line of work could be life ruining. Unable to work, an absent father, no where to live. Not that Phoebe or she would ever throw out one of their girls, but it wasn't ideal. Maeve takes the bag, holding it open for him as she kneels by the wheelbarrow, knowing the weight of it will be too much for her too hold up long.
Maeve lets out a breath, pursing her own lips as she watches the sand pile into the bag, "I know it isn't ideal, but... but maybe it can be good?" It sounds stupid and she hates that she's saying it. Maeve seals the bag once it's full, moving it with a bit of effort into another pile before opening the next one. "I hope it works out and I hope that your people can be there for you. That Safrin holds up whatever deal she made with you because I don't think you just did this for nothing. Not based on what you said." She doesn't try to find his eyes because she's pretty sure he can't look at her anyway.
She looks down, chewing on her bottom lip as her brows knit together and she really doesn't know if she should speak again. The words tumble out of her anyway. "I'm going to be honest, Jata. The gods scare the shit out of me. I haven't prayed to them since I was a child. I've not been to a shrine. I've never left gifts. None of it. I don't understand it, to be frank. Maybe because I've never had a prayer answered. Maybe because I'm pretty sure they don't fucking care that I exist." Maeve pauses, drawing in a sharp breath as she tries to calm her racing heart. It's the most she's ever said about her beliefs to someone and the nervousness in her belly threatens to make her sick. "But I do hope it works out for you. Really. You... You don't deserve all the bad you've gotten. At least not in my eyes."
These violent delights
Have violent ends
Have violent ends
