Northstar Vale The little deaths are a little less, even if just for a moment

She flicked an ear toward Warbone when a soft whine burbled in his throat, and flicked it away when the volume grew until he finally seemed to deflate with a groan. Swinging her muzzle across her battered and bleeding foreleg, she regarded him through a half-closed eye, feeling too drowsy to pay too much attention. She admittedly felt bad about that, but there was nothing to be done about it. She needed rest.

"I shouldn't have left," she countered, but that was all she could bring herself to say. She was still too trapped by her immaturity to recognize an effort in reaching out, and that would form a distance between them for a time, no doubt. It wasn't willfully done or even consciously done, but she'd always been one to run from her problems in her own way. Rarely did she take responsibility for her actions, preferring to blame others for what was a lack of stability on her part. She knew she could only improve.

Whether she really, truly wanted to was the real question. "Can we just rest?" she murmured, and then added a hesitating, "please? It hurts." She just wanted to close her eyes and sleep for a few hours to escape her self-loathing and the agony that came with the unforgivable thing she'd done. And in time—whether or not Warbone remained to attend her—she did drift off into an uneasy sleep.