What remains

NATHANIEL It's probably best to forget it. Nathaniel is silent as he watches the light flare and burn out in her eyes. An old, hollow feeling opens up in him: a sudden need to be smaller. If he could vanish, could rework the last few minutes and avoid the house and the girl inside, he would. Instead, he stands here chained to the twin burdens of his own worry and her sorrow. Sorry, he thinks again but doesn’t say. Sorry he’s alive and they’re not. A familiar knowledge: he isn’t what anyone wants, who anyone wants to see. He swallows, and prepares for her to yell, to say something, but when she does her tone is dead as the silent house. It would be better if she screamed, he thinks. He knows how to deal with that. But this — this silent, fragile, quivering… Nathaniel has never known how to deal with this. She turns away, and he is still silent in the doorway, unable to move. Hardly any time has passed at all, and yet it feels like days. He can’t tell if she sobs or if she somehow manages to hold it back. There on the floor, wracked with grief, she looks terribly frail. He almost fears that even speaking aloud will break her. Inertia only holds him for so long, though. He needs to act or he fears he’ll be stuck in this house, in this moment, forever. “Are you…” He draws in a steadying breath. Ok is so absolutely the wrong word. “Are you hurt?” Nathaniel can guess Maea spent Longnight elsewhere, but he cannot tell if she suffers anything external. He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I’ll… go check the animals.” There, an escape. He drifts back, each step slow. If she does speak up, say she needs some more specific kind of help, he will remain. But he wants to give her space if she prefers to have that, and anyway, someone ought to check the rest of the farm. Keep those who still survive alive. It's probably best to let go.