Whitebark Stream That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter.

she expects disgust, pity, questions; not the answer he gives. quiet sympathy, acceptance of who she was and what she'd done; the grief lingered, but stilled, softened. she holds still at his touch, pressing her own muzzle lightly to his when given the opportunity.

then comes his own story; she listens as he had. and so they had both loved, and lost; both once-mates, once-loved. when he turns away, she presses for a long moment her muzzle to his nape. for all you have lost, I'm sorry. his words are a balm to a still-open wound she had not been aware was still bleeding. 

she holds his gaze; there comes gratitude, sympathy, a deep sense of connection. they are akin in their lose, and she has revealed what she will always believe her most grievous mistake and still, he remains at her side. and something else, new and steadfast and quiet. "and you in mine," she answers, tenderly. she knows not what will come, but knows enough then to know what she wants. "yes, artyom. be my mate. I don't know what the future'll bring, but I want you in it."