[ She feels him there with her, following behind like a ghost, a part of her soul detached and finally come home. It's something she's felt before, and even now in the hold of the dream, she recognizes it. Brood. The people who feel like family but are still strangers, the allies in this war who she should be closest to. His name is missing but it doesn't matter — names don't matter much anyway, she knows that better than most.
Turning to look at the face that goes along with that honeyed voice, there's almost a spark of awareness, a hint of recognition that this is a dream, but it flits along the edges of her mind like petals on a breeze. ]
(They'd say it's not nearly enough. What if they're right?)
[ There's an aching exhaustion in those smooth southern vowels, and a plea for answers that he couldn't possibly give. Answers to questions she's wrestled with for her whole life, etched in the pain wrapped around her heart. ]
no subject
Turning to look at the face that goes along with that honeyed voice, there's almost a spark of awareness, a hint of recognition that this is a dream, but it flits along the edges of her mind like petals on a breeze. ]
( They'd say it's not nearly enough. What if they're right? )
[ There's an aching exhaustion in those smooth southern vowels, and a plea for answers that he couldn't possibly give. Answers to questions she's wrestled with for her whole life, etched in the pain wrapped around her heart. ]