It's a feeling we always chase

Maea

And time it waits for no one
It heals them when you die

Maea was trapped in a maelstrom of churning thoughts, most circling around laments of how things could have been, should have been. Her silence was not challenged or broken, her tension not questioned. Was she grateful for it? Or would she have preferred some comfort, some sign that he was aware of her conflicts, and cared about soothing worries?

In the end, she got no sympathy. Just space while he did his own preparations, which left her feeling cold and strangely alone as she removed the dress and the shift, crawling in beneath the blankets with everything but underwear removed. Was this what it meant to be responsible for her own choices then? No one to lean on but herself... For all the warmth of furs and blankets, of whiskey in blood and food in her belly, Maea felt... hollow.

She pulled the blankets high up under the chin, curled up on her side with the back turned to Sunjata, and plenty of space between them. Gazed with unseeing eyes at the burning candles on the beside. Why had he lit them?

"Goodnight," she said quietly, and closed her eyes. Doubting very much that she would get any sleep with so much twisting in her mind.

And soon you are forgotten
A whisper within a sigh