Hushed Willows [m] Every song that I've ever loved

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For @Nimbus!

The true tragedy was always in the aftermath, Marina had found. Easy enough to see something noble in the suffering of the moment, to say: I fought and I wept, and something was taken from me, but see how high I still hold my head; see how sure my steps are as I walk away. Easy enough to put on that show of stubborn survival for a day, even if only for her own benefit.

Yet the days wore on, and defiance faded into exhaustion, into the overwhelming sense that she was now the one taking something from herself with each day she spent in silent melancholy. When she wept it stung like salt and sand; like a cracked hourglass, like shores torn apart by rain and wind. Marina ate little, and kept often to herself, though she dedicated no small amount of time to the care of the wounded man she'd found. What else was there to do?

Marina traced a path down the slope from the mountainside den, thoughts drifting unbidden to the pale man whose face she hadn't seen at all. She'd only caught a glimpse of his eyes, yellow eyes, more like some evil old cat than a wolf. Perhaps he hasn't been a wolf at all; it would not have been the first time she'd been plagued by spirits.