Emberwood Closeness breeds familiarity

His expression changed. Reverie knew even as denial reared its frantic head with rapid-fire assumptions: Gunnar was sick, Gunnar was hurt, he was unwell, he —

He passed away, Reverie.

No, The word slipped from her reflexively, little more than a gasp. She wanted to ask how, but she knew; she wanted to ask when, but she didn't want to know. Did it truly matter? Either way, she hadn't been there.

Reverie fell into a sit, eyes hot but strangely dry. She couldn't feel the sun on her fur anymore. Gunnar was gone. Her father was gone, her true father, the only one who had ever made her feel truly accepted. The one who had taught her family all over again, who had taught her how to love as a daughter and a sister and a mother. He'd taught her so many things. He would never teach her anything again.

You don't get to make her death about you.

Akavir's voice, always in her ears in moments like these. Always reminding her that grief was for those who could love with their whole heart. Not her. Save your act.

If it was all just an act, why did it hurt so much?

I'm sorry, Reverie said finally, voice breaking. I'm sorry I wasn't there, I - It's not about you. She drew in a shaky breath. I'm sorry. Are you... are you okay, Sven?