Neverwinter Forest hurting. longing. dancing to disco music.

Lótë's breath caught in her throat. 

She swallowed thickly, steadying herself much as Makan had and attempting to find the right words. "I am a mother. It's who I am. Or at least part of it. And Fjall's father has come to join us, to be near his son." Lótë wished she could find an articulate way to make it clear that there was no romantic attraction between she and Kjalarr -- only friendship, only shared responsibility for the life they'd created -- but the words tangled on her tongue no matter how she tried to shape it. 

Simplicity always seemed to work best for them anyways. 

"I'm right here." She always had been. "Stay...please," the last was a wilted wisp, catching as it escaped timorously.