𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚. Don’t leave me. Back then, back when, in the beginning, in a dark, dreary room, those words seemed to be the only ones she could utter. Don’t leave me, as that woman stepped back from her bed whenever her research reached a short-lived dead-end, suffocating lantern fire with a flick of her wrist and not one look back. Don’t leave me, as she curled into herself, biting back the sharp surges of 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣 blossoming just underneath her skin, pressing her lips tight / together, her eyes shut against the impending / approaching darkness of the cold room. Don’t leave me, her village’s voice in her head like a retrospective warning / a retreating image / a quieting echo. She doesn’t regret leaving her home— doesn’t want to permit even the faintest whispers of absence— but if she can help it, those whispers are the sort of ambiance she doesn’t anticipate being subjected to 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣. Call it a precautionary measure. ❛ I can’t promise that, Mari. ❜ It’s not the most... fitting thing to say, given… well, the bleeding battlefield around them, but anything other than the truth wouldn’t be fair— wouldn’t be her. ❛ I can’t make empty promises like that. ❜ She gives Marianne’s hand a gentle squeeze, a thought-not gesture, her focus scattered all around the field; on the sound of metal clashing against metal / the acidic smell of active magic in the air / the visceral vision of their loss, should they give even an inch. Hand dropping to her side, she tightens it to a loose fist. ❛ I’m here now, though, right? That means something. ❜ It has to.
