"Everyone," She begins slowly, tries to decide how much to offer. Her tongue pulls jealous at the words, would sooner keep them for itself, unsaid. You don’t speak of this. "I have ever led is gone."

Arnault alone, not dead; gone the same.

"The last — when we went to that town. Gone now. And when we returned, all that I could think was, Maker. At least it is over." Wren glances up to the ceiling, watches a stain there. "At least I could stop."

What the fuck is this helping. This really isn’t helping. She tries again,

"The hurt has not, but it is fresh. Every day, there is less. At times," Something catches. "At times, I think that is to do them an injustice. To allow the wound to dull."

"But it does, and. That makes it easier, to remember the other things. The things they were, outside that pain."