you have survived every moment of your life
even the ones you swore you wouldn't
He can tell, as she turns to him, that the ice surrounding her has begun to thaw. It still holds her trapped, limbs frozen in painful contortions echoing the last dying pose of a woman already lost to time now. But perhaps once she is free, they can begin to move again. In different angles and movements, maybe, but with the same soulful intent behind their motions. It cheers him, a little, to see more presence behind her eyes as they connect with his own blues, bruised around the edges as they are.
“You could rebuild it,” he offers for lack of anything better. “Sometimes the act of creation can be healing, especially when it is something destroyed by your hands. I know Nate’s brother is a nurse, and I’ve been teaching first aid at the little school for adults I teach at. I’m sure someone would enjoy it if it was offered.” Perhaps not Nate himself, but that forgiveness was a battle unto itself. Perhaps this could be one with a guaranteed success instead.
He hadn’t expected her to overlook his son, or to refrain from asking, so it’s a rather anticipated question. One scarred hand comes up to gently cradle the back of the boy’s head in the sling against his chest, staring down at the tiny sliver of nose and closed eyes visible. “…yeah. Phoebe she’s - I don’t know where she is now. Maybe Frey took her somewhere again, like when she was in her cocoon before becoming a demigod. I don’t know,” and though he tries for it to come out blasé, simple, there is a deep and wretched hurt and grief that lives in those words, “so it’s just me and him now.” For better or worse.
“You could rebuild it,” he offers for lack of anything better. “Sometimes the act of creation can be healing, especially when it is something destroyed by your hands. I know Nate’s brother is a nurse, and I’ve been teaching first aid at the little school for adults I teach at. I’m sure someone would enjoy it if it was offered.” Perhaps not Nate himself, but that forgiveness was a battle unto itself. Perhaps this could be one with a guaranteed success instead.
He hadn’t expected her to overlook his son, or to refrain from asking, so it’s a rather anticipated question. One scarred hand comes up to gently cradle the back of the boy’s head in the sling against his chest, staring down at the tiny sliver of nose and closed eyes visible. “…yeah. Phoebe she’s - I don’t know where she is now. Maybe Frey took her somewhere again, like when she was in her cocoon before becoming a demigod. I don’t know,” and though he tries for it to come out blasé, simple, there is a deep and wretched hurt and grief that lives in those words, “so it’s just me and him now.” For better or worse.
this time is no different
you will last
