Panther Park white winter hymnal

Dakarai was talking about her, them. Olive was his woman. She was carrying his children. He remembered. Yet… he was looking right through her. Not seeing her. Not seeing his children flourish within her. Not seeing the love that she cast before him, offered to him freely and endlessly. It was all right there, but he didn’t see it and instead it crumbled under his harsh gaze. Olive felt herself crumble, too.

“You’re hurt,” the waif choked out, her gamine form clawing at the earth, creeping and inching towards him in an agonized prostration. If was here from her ragged place upon the cold dirt that she threw her swimming gaze up at her husband, the man who now looked down upon her with such uncertainty and ambivalence. She beseeched him. “Y- You just need to… rest a-a-and h-heal,” Olive said, struggling to keep the emotion from her voice and trying very hard not to simply wail like a child. The lamb was more trying to convince herself that he would somehow come to, once he healed up a bit more. Her poor,  poor husband was hurt — but she could not comfort him, could not reach him. Hell, she’d bet he wouldn’t even let her touch him. 

It seemed that any memory of who they were, what they were together was just… gone. To not have that for even a single moment was a most macabre form of torture. The pain of it was too great to ignore. As Olive tended to do when she experienced strong emotion, she found herself unable to stop talking; to try and rationalize this situation through words. 

“I want to help you.” 
“Let me help you.” 
“Let me help you. Let me, please”.
"Please."

All tact let her and she begged him plainly, desperately, clinging to their memories with all her might. Her eye squeezed shut and crystalline tears wet her cheeks. He may not know who she was, but she would not let him leave her.