Moonspear southern gothic

Oh, no—

Tears. Or at least the threat of them.

She was bad with these. Hydra nearly balked in the face of them—should she go? Her sister might be better off for it. There was still time; she was not crying, not yet, not really. Yama had always been something like a ghost to Hydra, giving most of her time to their mother and father... or her littermates. Arcturus cared most for her, of them all; she was his last littermate left, here. Had her spirit departed with their parents? Could it be brought back? What would it take, to see if she were more than simply white noise? 

Hydra did all she could in the moment. She remained. The Queen remained steady where Yama seemed to waver, and said: I am here for you, sister, voice softer than moments ago. She did not explain what she meant; she imagined Yama did know, but perhaps was not ready to say so. That was alright; Hydra did understand that much. The finality of saying it—almost as though it was acceptable, that terrible occurrence, that awful day. It was why she herself could not say, I wish they could be here for you still; even her tongue wilted at the idea of speaking this terrible truth.