Firefly Glen because you feel like a heartbeat

His offer halted her tracks, spring gaze lingering for once - brazenly - upon the congealed molasses of Memory's, both exposed and still clinging to the projected image of collectedness that had kept the terror-riddled girl from falling to fragments. 

Pink lips part, close, part again as those ghostly eyes blink, debating. There's no words she can give, no string of sentences that can explain her reluctancy to reveal her ruin. It's been stuffed down, bottled up, for the sake of survival - the grief too strong, too much. To lift it from her shoulders and examine it in the light of day would have destroyed her. 

The fear of that destruction holds her tongue, even now. 

She doesn't wish to admit that she might never be able to talk about it. So, the seelie nods, lips quirking ever so briefly at their corners in gratitude. 

The waif has taken but a step forward, drawn back on her haunches as the dreskar recoils - causing a flinch of her own to mimic his movements. 

"I am sorry," Fen murmurs, eyes soft with empathy and octaves with contriteness. "Ve nee' nae speak o' it, if it is unpleasant to ye," she continues, reaching out hesitantly as if to brush her raspberry nose against his dark shoulder comfortingly. 

Thinking better of such a bold move, her muzzle dropped and she moved to lead the Nightwalker into the forest - faerie eyes scanning the surrounding growth for the proper herbs. 

"Vhat place vould ye call 'ome, zen?" She tried again, voice hushed within the shadows of the glen.