I'm very used to feeling sad, it doesn't make me cry...
She spent the last week and a half underground, but, as always, the soot and the dark drove her up to surface, like a smoked-out fox (although it's always less her choice than Hephaestus', he knowing what's good for her much more than she does and that's saying something, since he doesn't know a lot about humans); now she's storming around her house angrily, folding all the costumes made for Cyrano, settling everything neatly into a box that could be carried somewhere, but she doesn't want to leave.
She misses Bedwyr to-day more than yesterday.
Finally she sits down at the table with a glass of water by her hand and puts her face in her arms. It's like being widowed. Some days it's impossible to quantify.
(She wants Florian. There's no way to explain that.)
She misses Bedwyr to-day more than yesterday.
Finally she sits down at the table with a glass of water by her hand and puts her face in her arms. It's like being widowed. Some days it's impossible to quantify.
(She wants Florian. There's no way to explain that.)