Rubilykskoye; IC inbox

[necrosaint]

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Harrowhark, 19

(work in progress!)

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[unconscionable]

All right. Good.

[necrosaint]

[ Harrow could leave it there. Harrow should leave it there, just at his being reassuring, revel in the moment and convince herself that God really just cared about her and his daughter her cavalier--

But she doesn't.

Because that would be too easy. And sensible. And devoid of loaded statements. ]

And yourself, if I may ask? Without ... your cavalier?

[unconscionable]

I miss her.

[ It's hard to say if he misses her as a person or as power, as an inevitability to reach for. That ambiguity threads through his simple psychic statement like a second text: never before so alone / never before so weak. ]

Being here I could almost forget the last ten thousand years. But I can't forget her absence.

[necrosaint]

[ she's awkward in an uncertain, hesitant way, like "am I allowed to say this?" ]

I miss her too.