They used to be almost laughable. His way of calling her back, teasing her, when her mind was wandering. When she was off in daydreams, basking in the warm sun during free hours at the Academy.
But those words haunt her memory. They don't frighten her, but they remind her. Of another sunny day, of another patch of grass. Of that strange feeling of being half asleep. Of knowing she was just so, so tired. Of strong arms trying to keep her from what had proven to be the inevitable.
She looks at him and then moves. Uncurls and shifts. Off the chair, forward, to clutch at him and bury her face in the crook of his neck. She tries to hold back another sob, tries to pretend she's not quivering.]
I'm not mad at you, Cato. [It's muttered, a choked assurance.] I screwed up, not you. I'm not mad at you.
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They used to be almost laughable. His way of calling her back, teasing her, when her mind was wandering. When she was off in daydreams, basking in the warm sun during free hours at the Academy.
But those words haunt her memory. They don't frighten her, but they remind her. Of another sunny day, of another patch of grass. Of that strange feeling of being half asleep. Of knowing she was just so, so tired. Of strong arms trying to keep her from what had proven to be the inevitable.
She looks at him and then moves. Uncurls and shifts. Off the chair, forward, to clutch at him and bury her face in the crook of his neck. She tries to hold back another sob, tries to pretend she's not quivering.]
I'm not mad at you, Cato. [It's muttered, a choked assurance.] I screwed up, not you. I'm not mad at you.