clarity, paint me bright like stars in the dark of night
Time was a funny thing.
Or, Hawke supposes, he was a funny thing.
(It was still strange to think of the man, and his two legs, and his odd tail.
To think of Time as a living entity and not a thing.)
For although Rora was weighed down by her choices, hopelessly hurt by the decision she had to make, the woman she had left behind, Hawke was buoyed by them. For as the years reach their end, she thinks about the empty room and the woman who no longer lived there
—the woman who had been saved.
Because in Hawke’s river of time, love conquered all.
Of course, this is not something she shares often, or readily, because in many ways the adventure does not feel real even to her. Not the worst parts, where claws dug into her haunches and her flesh gave way, or the best parts, when purpose and adventure thrilled through her young veins. It was difficult to remind herself that it was real and it happened to her. It was not some fantastic dream that she concocted.
She was surprised when she saw the young black mare, the sadness practically palpable around her, and her wild heart broke at the thought of it. Her ears perked as she caught the soft whisper, and her mouth turned down into a frown. For a moment, she paused, wondering if hit would be kinder to give the mare some space, but she decided against it. In the same situation, she knew that she would want the company.
“I apologize for intruding,” her voice was quiet but steady—remarkably self-assured for someone of her young age. “But I overheard you.” Her face was washed with sympathy as she came to a stop. “Is there anything that I can do to help?”