Moonspear count your fears if you let me

She didn't have to ask again. It hit her like a herd of bison all at once. Rannoch had lied to her (of course), and Terance had known this whole time and let her deal with that whole situation independently and without warning. She felt sick, physically sick, and really didn't know what to do as he lowered his head and splayed his ears and repeated himself like she had asked in the first place. 

She felt very, very cold as she watched him. And very confused, too. He, of all the wolves, had no reason to go... And yet, there he stood. I'm leaving Moonspear. Then go, she barked hoarsely, brooking no room for rebuttal or discussion. What was the point? What was the point in exhausting herself and attempting to prevent the inevitable? She was tired. Very tired of the farce she had been living in for a long, long time, it seemed. 

He, too, clearly did not care. Cared enough to let her know, maybe, but all of his words had become the droning winter wind, supplying little else but for a shiver that reminded her she lived and breathed still. This was a passionless affair. She watched him, waiting mutely for him to turn and go. He, too, was no longer Moonspear, surely to his thrill.