[Sorrel doesn't know what to say to that; his first impulse is another apology, but he can tell that that isn't the right answer. So he just hums a wordless, directionless sound of agreement. He does as he's told, and with unexpected enthusiasm. The pie itself seems as if nothing could be less desirable, until Sorrel breaks the crust and the smell rises up to strike him like a physical blow. The first bite is dignified enough, but the second is larger, and soon the tray is empty and even the tea is missing an inch or two.
The body knows what the heart sometimes forgets; death is for the dead, and no amount of love for those left behind can stop life from continuing on.]
Thank you.
[He says it softly, when he's down to the last of his tea, almost sheepish. Finally, he looks up from the cup in his hands, still warm, as if to say Now what?]
no subject
The body knows what the heart sometimes forgets; death is for the dead, and no amount of love for those left behind can stop life from continuing on.]
Thank you.
[He says it softly, when he's down to the last of his tea, almost sheepish. Finally, he looks up from the cup in his hands, still warm, as if to say Now what?]