Swiftcurrent Creek Can't forget your style or your cynicism

His old den. Eshe. Reverie had never met the woman, but it wasn't difficult to put two and two together. All at once she understood: this was where his own ghosts lived. One of the places, at least. She didn't need to question his reason for bringing her here — what other option did he have? Her own abandoned den?

But he'd chosen not to be so cruel. Reverie let Mae slip away from her, pretending not to see the disgusted face the girl made in response to her kiss. Mae's attention was immediately swept away by Foxglove, who was still asleep; she didn't seem to hear anything either adult said after that, though Reverie did make an attempt at properly greeting her.

But then Akavir was leaving, as he'd seemed so intent on. This time Reverie only nodded. He'd already given her more kindness than she had any right to expect from him. She wouldn't ask for more.

Goodnight, Akavir.

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment before she turned to settle in the den. It was a bit of a mess, honestly. As if the occupants had departed abruptly. Reverie would spend the night clearing the den out after Mae left, remaking the space into something simple but warm; still with remnants of what it once was, but carefully rearranged. She didn't expect anyone to ever see it.

In place of the lavender she left roses. Just a few delicate blooms all in pink and yellow, but the scent of them filled the den as she and Foxglove departed the next morning.