Nimbus Summit I will give you all that I have and then some

He listened, he saw. He saw her pain, as clear and as crisp as a winter stream. The husbands brows pinched themselves and lifted, he gradually began to regret his decision to ask what happened. The sorrow it brought his wife didn't justify his sated curiosity. However, Rye didn't dare squeak out a noise, he listened instead, a pensive gaze settling into place. As the story developed, Imaq grew more perturbed, it did not go unnoticed by her husband, who immediately sought to comfort her with gingerly placed caresses. He pulled her into his chest, quietly cooing 'I love you''s to hopefully remind her, she wasn't alone anymore. 

Imaq explained her leg, using the words 'mountain' and 'boom'. Rye searched the trees while he began putting the puzzle pieces together, then it struck him. The grove, its mountain fell upon him and his previous pack, nearly maiming Rye. His eyes widened, he vividly remembered the terror, the serrated adrenaline that sliced his veins as he ran. The husband nodded his head, showing he understood her meaning, frowning as she mimicked what she had to do to save herself.       

Nothing could have prepared the man for what his wife would explain to him next, her first mentions of a mysterious man flared his nostrils. It visibly shortened his breath, it hitched in the back of his throat. Rye swallowed hard, fearing what the man did to his wife, the thought of it burned his skin, he wanted vengeance but Imaq explained more. Telling her husband his intentions to take their son, Rye glanced worriedly to their den, then returned his gaze to his wife. She told of how she killed him soon after, the hotah recoiled, as if he was physically pushed back from the news. His brows drew in with confusion, anger and concern. Rye wanted to deny it, deny his wife and son went through those tragedies but the look upon her face expressed it was torturously real.

Shame crushed the husband betwixt its fingers. The guilt he once harbored returned, he wondered, again, how he could have let any of it happen. For what felt like a small eternity, Rye couldn't find his words, they slipped from his tongue each time he tried to speak; but eventually he found his voice. "Imaq, I'm—" Was apologizing good enough? Rye wondered how many times he had said he was sorry, how little good it truly did. He needed to offer reassurance, reassurance that he still loved her. "I" He reiterated. "I don't blame you, I do not see you differently. You are still my wife, the mother to my son, I doubt there is much in this world that could change that." Much like hers, his voice was hushed but not without sincerity.