(Abby's head turns in the direction of the faint ruckus. Her body turns too, almost imperceptibly, to face the unknown threat. She's used to reacting to the slightest sound, having to take every rustle seriously, but maybe she looks to give them both a moment to recover, too. Astarion from the surprise of hearing her say that to him and Abby from the surprise of having said it at all because she's unsure where it came from. It was a strange need to empathise.
His gratitude receives a grunt in reply in lieu of knowing what to say.
Then, lightly,) I don't know. (As if it doesn't ache like a slow-healing wound. Every single day.) It was him, and me. We didn't have anybody else.
(He isn't alone. He's still with whatever part of Abby that was left behind when she came here, but it's difficult to wrap her head around the notion. Here, she's without him. She's been having dreams of him struggling, without her.
i know how to tag in a timely manner
His gratitude receives a grunt in reply in lieu of knowing what to say.
Then, lightly,) I don't know. (As if it doesn't ache like a slow-healing wound. Every single day.) It was him, and me. We didn't have anybody else.
(He isn't alone. He's still with whatever part of Abby that was left behind when she came here, but it's difficult to wrap her head around the notion. Here, she's without him. She's been having dreams of him struggling, without her.
Her breath catches. A quick in-in-out.)
I hope he's okay.
(God, she misses him.)