"Aware of-" She cuts herself off, brows pulling together before her voice can rise, before she can say any number of things that sit behind her teeth in the back of her teeth where the terrible things are, the words that you pull out when you want to hurt because they hurt you on the way, the ones you like to worry at after you've said them, expecting to feel some cut or gaping hole in your mouth, surprised by the absence of anything but the ache deeper down.
She doesn't slump, even now she's Flemeth's daughter, and ten years away she has made herself more, but it's a near thing.
"I trust the Western Approach was fruitful for all your silence?" No she's not hurt, whatever would give you that impression? The lack of eye contact, the way it bleeds into her tone, the way she curls her fingers to keep herself to herself this time because last time it was more than she imagined before it became exactly what she feared? "There are so few here to make the days interesting when you are gone. Who am I to speak with of my work?"
Who is she to pester who understands, who can she be silent with, who will understand when she is hot and cold, when she can be sharp then almost sweet?
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She doesn't slump, even now she's Flemeth's daughter, and ten years away she has made herself more, but it's a near thing.
"I trust the Western Approach was fruitful for all your silence?" No she's not hurt, whatever would give you that impression? The lack of eye contact, the way it bleeds into her tone, the way she curls her fingers to keep herself to herself this time because last time it was more than she imagined before it became exactly what she feared? "There are so few here to make the days interesting when you are gone. Who am I to speak with of my work?"
Who is she to pester who understands, who can she be silent with, who will understand when she is hot and cold, when she can be sharp then almost sweet?