if it doesn't burn a little
She chuckles slightly, though the sound is without its usual mirth. ”I did not say you didn’t argue,” she points out. It was not as if she did not believe Loren. Rather, she simply wanted him to know that Maea did not seem mad. Time often reshapes memories; it tempers the anger, leaves only the love.
Weaver takes the book from his hand, opening it. It doesn’t look like cider recipes, though she’s not entirely sure. She puts it aside, in case it is what she needs, and pulls out two drawers from the desk. She takes the top one and hands the bottom to Loren, if he wants to keep searching. Weaver takes a seat on the ground, drawer in front of her, legs crossed beneath her.
”She was telling me how she had an itch she couldn’t scratch. I’d be mad at her for it, but I get it. We long for more, though what that more is is hard to come by.” She doesn’t know what Maea was seeking, what drove her to some dangerous mission on some far off shore. She only knows that Maea had to make her own choices, even if that meant leaving them behind.
Weaver takes the book from his hand, opening it. It doesn’t look like cider recipes, though she’s not entirely sure. She puts it aside, in case it is what she needs, and pulls out two drawers from the desk. She takes the top one and hands the bottom to Loren, if he wants to keep searching. Weaver takes a seat on the ground, drawer in front of her, legs crossed beneath her.
”She was telling me how she had an itch she couldn’t scratch. I’d be mad at her for it, but I get it. We long for more, though what that more is is hard to come by.” She doesn’t know what Maea was seeking, what drove her to some dangerous mission on some far off shore. She only knows that Maea had to make her own choices, even if that meant leaving them behind.
-- weaver
then what's the point in playing with fire?
