Witch's Marsh Death doesn't let you say goodbye

This thought repeated and refused to leave: that he was real, and that something was wrong. She could tell in the way he pulled away, in the way he closed his eyes from her, and she hurt with the want to help him, and stung with the uncertainty of how. He couldn't mask his anguish, nor hide his grief, even as he hid his gaze from her.

He wretched a sob, and Nanook found she was unable to retain her distance anymore. With a wrench, she unfurled her steps toward him and covered the distance left between. His voice rang with such distress, that her chest burned, and she felt the heat of a cry sting through her throat, yet no noise escaped. No, no - he blamed himself, and she shook her head, even though his head remained bowed, and his eyes closed, and she knew he couldn't see.

"No," she broke the stillness, her voice hoarse, and her thoughts a mess of every word she wished to say. That he had done nothing wrong, that he was not to blame. Not for the lynx, not for the cave-in, not for the blizzard which had made their home a glacial tomb - but her breath drew blank. There were no words to cushion his guilt. Instead, she found herself ushered back to a day long ago, when she had cried in an agony so similar to his own. "I forgive you. I am sorry, too," her head buzzed as she breathed the very words that had once healed her, "I missed you, my ice bear."