Meadowlark Prairie what was and what shall be again

He watched tension snake its way through her; every muscle pulled taut as emotion seized her further, tearing asunder whatever it could as it clawed its way through. There was something about the way she drew and held her breath when it all came to a point that softened his features, and tentatively he closer to her. When she spoke, it was hushed and rough, weary around the edges, and he resisted the urge to hush her like a child.

"Don't be," he murmured back gently. His gaze followed every angle her body displayed; wondering, investigating. "I only wish you would have told me you needed to go." He couldn't, and wouldn't fault her for disappearing into the night. There had been little he had been able to do to pull her up out of the grief that had consumed her and perhaps rightfully so. Remorse was a crippling thing—they could both attest to having seen it before, if nowhere else than in the face of their mother at every impasse, every defense she had rose on their behalf when they had been too young to fend for themselves.

And he realized as his gaze settled back to her face, there was much to tell her, so much to speak of. Yet it hardly seemed proper—he picked up on the finer things about her now, specifically the medley of scents that clung to her in varied degrees. She wasn't alone—he opted to press gently instead: "Where have you been? Somewhere safe, I hope, with all that goes on lately."

no worries! i'm busy and i figured you were too.