[ The silence is heavy. Her heart beats steadily, quicker than his own, and beside her, he can smell the fur of the wolf, hear its soft breaths. He is not alone, for once, and he wants to be. He wants to be, except he doesn’t, and then he is.
He needn’t look. Still, he turns. He wants to be wrong, to be surprised to find her still there, sleeping. She isn’t.
The hollow in his chest grows a little wider. It’s funny. Every time he expects what’s coming, every time he sees it from miles away, he thinks it’ll hurt less. And every time, he’s reminded it does not. He catches her scent for a few moments more before it fades entirely. The spot on the bed beside him is cold. As if she were never here. He supposes, in all the ways that count, she wasn’t.
He wonders what it’d be like, to turn around and for once find that he isn’t alone.
When he leaves, he shuts the door behind him. The torches are snuffed out through the keep, the candles unlit, the hearth only full of old ashes. He doesn’t look back a second time. He knows better. Those who leave him do not return for him. He’d hardly expect them to, either. ]
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He needn’t look. Still, he turns. He wants to be wrong, to be surprised to find her still there, sleeping. She isn’t.
The hollow in his chest grows a little wider. It’s funny. Every time he expects what’s coming, every time he sees it from miles away, he thinks it’ll hurt less. And every time, he’s reminded it does not. He catches her scent for a few moments more before it fades entirely. The spot on the bed beside him is cold. As if she were never here. He supposes, in all the ways that count, she wasn’t.
He wonders what it’d be like, to turn around and for once find that he isn’t alone.
When he leaves, he shuts the door behind him. The torches are snuffed out through the keep, the candles unlit, the hearth only full of old ashes. He doesn’t look back a second time. He knows better. Those who leave him do not return for him. He’d hardly expect them to, either. ]