if it doesn't burn a little
She shuffles through the contents of the drawer in front of her. There seems to be little more than odds and ends in here, knickknacks, pieces of a life that would never be lived. Weaver fingers the items, wondering what they could tell her if they could talk. Stories of a girl who’d hoped and dreamed, who’d loved and lost, who’d been loved and now was lost to them.
Her attention drifts from the items to Loren’s words, and she nods. ”But you are not her,” she says simply. Could they judge her for making the decisions she had made? Well, they could, she supposes, but was it right to? They all made decisions, often ones others didn’t agree with. She knows from Loren’s own mouth that he’s well familiar with that concept. Not that she condones Maea running off and putting herself in danger, but perhaps she had run off instead to help. Perhaps she did not know just how dangerous it would be. Perhaps it should not have been.
”She may not have known, either, exactly what would happen.” Weaver is not sure if that makes it better or worse, but still, it may be the truth. Loren hands a book toward her, and Weaver turns toward him fully, taking the book and looking at the page it’s open to. She grins as she skims it, finding that these were clearly directions to make cider. Weaver flips through some of the pages, finding various notes, flavor combinations, and directions on how to do things. ”This is it,” she says, her smile sad but full of memory and love. ”It is not very much, but it is a piece of her I can keep alive.”
Her attention drifts from the items to Loren’s words, and she nods. ”But you are not her,” she says simply. Could they judge her for making the decisions she had made? Well, they could, she supposes, but was it right to? They all made decisions, often ones others didn’t agree with. She knows from Loren’s own mouth that he’s well familiar with that concept. Not that she condones Maea running off and putting herself in danger, but perhaps she had run off instead to help. Perhaps she did not know just how dangerous it would be. Perhaps it should not have been.
”She may not have known, either, exactly what would happen.” Weaver is not sure if that makes it better or worse, but still, it may be the truth. Loren hands a book toward her, and Weaver turns toward him fully, taking the book and looking at the page it’s open to. She grins as she skims it, finding that these were clearly directions to make cider. Weaver flips through some of the pages, finding various notes, flavor combinations, and directions on how to do things. ”This is it,” she says, her smile sad but full of memory and love. ”It is not very much, but it is a piece of her I can keep alive.”
-- weaver
then what's the point in playing with fire?
