Lake Rodney Sailor Song

His suffering is quiet. Her heart is sickened by the details and all those he need not elaborate on, but which the mind inevitably will. Eset’s eyes hold when her chest thrums nervously. Her nod in turn is slow; accepting. “I was a bauble. Entertainment for his clientele."

Shame. it is always the first emotion. Ashamed to be worth so little.
Anger. With herself. For not being stronger. Anger with her mother that she'd let it happen.
Fear. That it would happen again.

"We cannot undo it," she whispers at last, "and I wont waste my life trying. He wins, that way. I want to be worth something– more.” And when she speaks, he is slipping away. Dragged under, caught in undertows of the lake that would pull him farther and farther away from shore.

Cautiously, Eset brushes a damp paw against Machiavelli’s. A tender weight. Featherlight. He is strong. He is enduring. “You are worth something more,” she tells him.