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[There's a clear split in her thought processes between the moment where she's thinking about Arthur's question and the moment where recollections of his own space float to the surface of his memories. It's a contemplative stroll down the path interrupted by tripping on an absolutely massive tree root which sends her ass over teakettle into a ditch of confusion and fascination.

What IS that thing? is the immediate impression, though outwardly it's accompanied only by a slight furrow of the brow. Rather than consider too deeply whether she wants to hold back some of the relevant information, she offers her answer breezily, like it's a distraction from the real issue.] I've never really had one, so it doesn't make much of a difference to me.

Hey— sorry, I don't mean to nose around, but— [She looks to him with intense focus, alight with eager curiosity.] What was that thing that came to mind? That little creature with the duck bill?

[Truly she has a hunger to learn.]

[ Her startled confusion is clear over the tether, though it runs alongside her processing the conversation about personal spaces. Separate thoughts and yet, rapid enough that switching from one to the other will require temporarily dropping a topic if needed.

Which apparently is the case, since the answer she gives—well, it's kind of sad, really. And it's something he tucks away to come back to later, because apparently his recollection of Vivian's gift is more important at the moment. Having anticipated the curiosity, he still can't help the raise of his brows, nor the bemusement that colors his voice. ]

The platypus? They're mammals mostly native to Australia. [ Not that she'll know where that is, but anyway: ] I take it they don't exist where you're from?

[ Score one for the mundane world having something more fantastical than a place that has fairies. ]

The platypus? [Her disbelieving delight is as clear in her voice as it is in the grin that's broken out over her face. A current of laughter underscores her exclamation.] What a cute name!

[He is absolutely correct that "Australia" doesn't ring any bells for her, but that doesn't seem to trouble her one bit as she barrels forward into this fun new discovery.] We have most of the animals I've seen here so far, so— they might? But if they do, I've certainly never seen one!

[Could she have been summoning Coconut as one of these delightful creatures?? So many missed opportunities!]

I suppose it is. [ He remarks, in a way that indicates he's never thought about the inherent cuteness of this animal's name. Because he hasn't. The delight in her laugh, though, is a bit infectious, making the corners of his mouth turn up. ]

They're not exactly all over, here, either. Maybe there's a whole colony of them on some remote island you haven't been to yet. [ After all, the only reason anyone outside of Australia knew what a platypus was in his world was thanks to modern communications. Well, settlement and science, too. But, a 10 year old in rural America wasn't likely to stumble on it in scientific papers or even in a textbook. Over the internet, though, that was more possible. ]

If you do find them, just be careful, they've got poison spurs on their feet.

They're venomous too?

[Her excitement only peaks higher, Arthur receiving a little squeeze of her arm as a consequence. There is now nothing except adoration for these weird little critters inside her heart.] Well, now I have to find them!

[Remote island. She's taking notes. They've eliminated the Reave, but there are plenty of other remote locations to explore, hopefully with fewer supernatural blizzards and shapeshifters running amok.

A pause, and then an idle musing:] I suppose I could conjure the form of one now, if Coconut wanted a new vessel... Maybe I could invent the platypus.

Yup, just on their back ... feet? Flippers? [ He actually has no earthly idea what they're counted as. It doesn't really seem to matter, since Kalmiya's excitement is palpable, especially as she gives him a brief squeeze with the arm that's looped over his shoulders. All he feels across the tether, too, is a radiant affection, centered around her thoughts of the little creatures. ]

Can you summon Coconut here? [ Is that even a thing? He'd thought with her being cut off from her powers, she wouldn't be able to. ] How often do familiars want for new vessels?

[ This magic stuff is still ... a lot. ]

[A stumble as someone skips. A cloud passing over the sun as it hangs high in an otherwise clear sky. The sheer delight in her face falls for a moment, overtaken by an outwardly very neutral contemplation.] Well— if I can, I haven't figured out how.

[She says that like she hasn't ruled it out entirely, and likely she hasn't. But what she means is not for the foreseeable future. She hasn't felt a lick of the Feywild's magic since that first dream in the grove.] I was thinking...after this. Back home.

[She's well aware that the sudden pull of heartache, of homesickness, probably makes its way across the Tether, and she silently acknowledges its presence by allowing it to sit in her chest and on her unsmiling face. And she leaves the door open for Arthur to acknowledge it, as well, by not changing the subject.

She doesn't do anything to explicitly verbalize the tender undercurrent of longing, though. It's been a long night, and not every sad feeling is so pressing to Kalmiya that it requires examination. Barring any curiosity on Arthur's part, she's content to let it pass without remark.] It depends on the personality of the familiar. They're creatures just like us. Some might get bored in the same form all the time; some might really hate to be anything different.

Coconut likes some variety.

[ Oh. He feels bad for asking as soon as her face falls, sadness eclipsing the previous enthusiasm she had at both the new knowledge and at the prospect of creating something. From the way she'd described it, her magic had been a part of her just like a limb. Something that sat under her skin and tied her to her equally whimsical patron. It only made sense that Sleep wouldn't abide by the voice of an outside god-like being "corrupting" her potential Vessels.

The feeling goes deeper than that, though. Beyond the feeling of missing a part of herself—it's the tug of homesickness. Not for a place, like she'd established, but for people, for the ones who'd already seen so many of her jagged edges and loved her anyway.

He thinks of that abyss of loneliness, the thin bridge stretched out over it, her resolute steps as she crossed and how she refused to look down. The shape of the blackness hadn't been anything but a void. But, he imagines if it took a shape, it would be the empty room, the one she'd occupied but hadn't existed in. Being here must feel like starting from zero, like partially reliving a nightmarish past life.

There's a quiet sense of curiosity about all of it, wondering how it connects to the people she's been traveling with. Maybe it's too soon to ask, with the imposing brightness of her mirror's visage still swimming in their memory.

Bringing a hand up, he cups her upper arm and gives it a gentle squeeze in place of a hug. Over the tether, there's the feeling of him tentatively sliding his arm around her shoulders and pulling her against his side, letting her lean into him. ]

... how would she travel with you? Would she still float or fly, regardless of shape? I don't think the platypus is, uh, very nimble on land.

[His curiosity is a hushed point of brightness in his answering current of emotion, like a flame upon the wick of a candle. She doesn't shy away from it, nor does she step further in to be illuminated; she can't discern exactly what it is that he's so curious about, and it's not in her nature to volunteer reserved information. But it's nothing to worry over, either. She's safe by this candlelight. It will come up when the moment is right.

For a beat she closes her eyes, feeling the embrace at both ends of mind and body, the squeeze of her arm and the reassuring tug on her shoulders. There's the sense of weight against Arthur's side as she lets herself settle into the comfort he offers; in physical space, a small wiggle tucks her more snugly against Arthur, gratitude warming the connection as it does her cheeks.

It feels longer than it is as she lets herself sit in this support. Soaks it in like a sponge—and then, with a deep sigh, wrings it out with the muck and the sadness, where it flows down the drain and leaves her feeling lighter.

Her eyes are more alert when she opens them again, though she doesn't look back to Arthur yet; she's clearly pondering as she regards the cracked ceiling, some whimsy returning to her voice.] I usually just carry her if her form isn't capable of flight...sometimes she likes to be tucked in at the top of my pack. I've wrapped her up in my cape on occasion, too.

[Swaddled like a little baby.]

[ Over the tether, he feels her settle in against his side, tucking into the invitation. It's a comfortable weight, one he's more than willing to bear for however long she needs. Her embrace outside of their connection is more subtle; a different tilt to her body, aligning them more closely together.

How she soaks in the warmth is gratifying as it is relieving. Not that he thought she would turn it down, but, it's still nice to know she's accepting the soft place to land. Even if it feels small, to him, in the face of her reassurance less than ten minutes ago.

Caught up in listening to her breathing, he doesn't notice her open her eyes, though he does note she sounds less drained when she speaks up again. ]

Oh, like a cat burrito?

[After a few moments, the psychic load lightens, less of a heavy lean to her presence as she finds equilibrium with her own weight again. She remains tucked flush to Arthur, though, both physically and through the tether. If he's going to offer her a spot at his side, she'll happily make herself comfortable in it.

There's a beat of quiet consideration, during which her fingertips continue to make little circles on Arthur's back. Then the ping of an idea occurring to someone for the first time and a clear visual of a cat swaddled in a very fluffy blanket.] It would be cute to wrap a cat up like that, wouldn't it?

[Great revelations.] Do cats like that, though? I've mostly dealt with strays.

[A real failing in her witch credentials not to have more cat experience, honestly.]

[ Unsurprisingly, Kalmiya stays tucked in at his side over the tether, but the pressure of it lessens. It's as though she's soaking up the warmth instead of needing someone to help hold her up. An equilibrium, of sorts. For a moment, he almost anticipates the feeling to fade, so used to the more brief embraces he's had over the years. When she remains as she is, though, something in him settles; acceptance. An old familiarity with a new face. He doesn't hate it, not at all. ]

Depends on the cat. [ Arthur shrugs as well as he's able to, with most of his upper body trapped as it is. ] Someone I was working with, he's got a few cats. Apparently one of them likes being wrapped up in a—

[ He pauses, momentarily trying to pull the phrasing up. And once he does, a smile is clearly coloring the syllables. ]—a purrito, he called it.

[ Yusuf had committed the ultimate sin of plotting behind all their backs along with Cobb, so Arthur still hated his guts, but he did have cute cats. He hasn't yet decided if the cats are going to save the chemist from his wrath once the job wraps.

Then again, that will all depend on whether they make it out of performing inception with their brains intact. He feels a spike of anxious annoyance at the thought and dismisses it; there's nothing he can do about it here. ]

[There's no hiding the utter delight on her face and through the Tether when Arthur utters the word purrito. Nor is there any hiding it when she catches the sharp buzz of that asynchronous, electric irritation. Annoyance, yes, but worry's feral cousin as well.

Her eyes widen faintly with surprise and her brow furrows as the spike draws her gaze down to Arthur. She's not terribly interested in pressing him about every troublesome feeling, particularly after the night he's had, but it just seems so sudden. She's pretty sure it isn't the purrito thing; he seemed amused by that, despite himself, and it doesn't explain the current of anxiety that touches the irritation.

For a moment her mind is stirred up, thick canopies of leaves rustling louder in the wind and the activity of distant creatures growing more agitated. Whatever her inclination about this feeling, she has to question her instincts in this context. This Tether thing—it feels so wonderful, but it's so complicated. It's still not entirely clear where to draw the line on acknowledging the information she receives through it.

It's only a breath of hesitation, of rapid-fire second-guessing before a corner of Kalmiya's mouth quirks up uncertainly, offering levity but refusing to mask her concern.] Not a fan of puns?

[She knows it's not the puns. But it's an easy out not to explain his reaction if he doesn't want to.]

[ Amidst the mixture of comfort and delight, there's a startled current. With it, he gets her confusion, the shape of which forms into a curious worry.

Hesitation settles between them momentarily before she takes the plunge, popping the spacious bubble. Ah, well. It only makes sense she'd be concerned about the sudden mood shift—he really does need to make more effort to keep the bleed from flowing over.

Sighing quietly, he figures this is bound to come up sooner or later. ] No, I ... suppose I like them well enough.

[ That part of the answer is a bit distracted, as he puzzles out where to begin. Idly, he strokes his thumb across her upper arm, where his hand is still curled. ]

The person with the cats, his name is Yusuf. Before I got here, he'd done something on the job we were working that might get us all killed. As you can imagine, our relationship is currently rather strained.

[ Understatement of the century, but she didn't need to get all the details in one go. It would be a lot to take in. ]

[Truthfully, she hasn't given much thought to Arthur's occupation. He comes from a very different world than her own, so she wouldn't have the context to guess the specifics even if she wanted to. If it were something he was particularly proud or forthcoming about, he would have already told her, as Freddie had when they met. So it's either not that important to him, or it's so important that he won't tell someone he doesn't trust; in either case, she's not inclined to ask after it.

She does figure that it's at least a little dangerous, because people who live in safety don't survive an environment like this at such an even keel as Arthur has up to this point. Plus, he seems pretty comfortable with that gun he has.

So it doesn't come as a shock to her when he elaborates upon a problem coworker in a life-or-death context. What is more interesting to her is his phrasing; Yusuf already did the bad thing, but the potential consequences are still in the future. So Arthur came to Manhattan with loose ends on that job. Doubtless that contributes to the whirring of electronics she often catches at night, the aural impression of his active thoughts.

Once again, it's clear that she's turning this information over in her head, though this time it isn't out of hesitation. Just curiosity, wondering at how all the dots connect. A touch of wry amusement replaces the worry on her face.] Mm. Incompetence and malice in colleagues are much harder to deal with when the stakes are higher than who's getting the promotion or cleaning the latrine.

[Briefly her focus finds the warmth at the path his thumb strokes along her arm, so that it doesn't instead wander to the few but infuriating times she's taken her friends to task for their choices on missions. Lightly,] One would think he'd be more cautious if he has pets to take care of!

[ Unlike the mechanics of his mind, hers sounds more like a forest when deep in thought. It's the rustle of branches in the breeze, the soft flowing trickle of a stream, the far off rush of a waterfall. Right now, her curiosity sounds like the chirping song of crickets; oddly soothing against the backdrop of his anxiety.

Because as she's surmised: he doesn't know how everything plays out. Whatever result occurs from Yusuf and Cobb's betrayal has yet to come. He's never liked loose ends and this one is especially egregious. Mouth twisting into a frown, he considers her phrasing—incompetence, it hadn't been, because both of them were good at their jobs. In fact, he would say Yusuf is an excellent chemist; even with all the tests, he's barely felt any of the usual side effects he's had on sub par Somnacin mixes.

And Cobb, well, when he's focused, he's an amazingly creative extractor.

Perhaps malice was correct. Trying not to get too worked up over it and appreciating her levity, he gives her upper arm a small squeeze, shifting just a bit to nuzzle his cheek against her chest. ]

You'd think so, yeah. [ Breathing out a sigh, he adds some more context. ] He did it because my—

[ There's a hesitation, words sticking to his tongue. ] —friend, Dom, asked him to. I run point for our jobs, I'm supposed to know every possible pitfall so I can get the team out of it in one piece. Neither of them told me about it until something had already gone sideways.

[ He thinks of the swooping sensation in his stomach when he'd turned around to see Saito pulling bloodied fingers away from the bullet wound in his chest, how it had immediately crashed him out of the adrenaline from the firefight.

More than that, though: ] If this goes wrong, I don't think Dom's gonna be able to see his kids again.

[ Sometimes he thinks of Mal, as he's winding down for sleep. But, it's this which keeps him up most of all—what happens, if none of them make it out of performing inception? What happens to Philippa and James? ]

[So it's a lot more than just Mal. The breeze whips up into a whirlwind, the stream burbles over, the creatures in the distance rumble in a way unidentifiable as any normal animal; a lot of pieces connect very quickly for her, and though it's not enough to get a full picture, she's beginning to understand a lot more about her unlikely friend here.

Arthur does a dangerous job. He is in a position of incredible responsibility in this job. Yusuf is a coworker, but Dom— Dom is a friend, and she's found that Arthur doesn't throw around the word "friend" casually. Dom, his friend, did something that prevented Arthur from being able to make sure that everyone was safe, and allowed part of the painful culpability of a bad outcome to cascade down onto Arthur's shoulders in doing so.

There's some anger to be found on her part in all this, some frustration on his behalf, but it's a quiet simmer underneath the insistent waves of her concern. There's no point in stoking the anger when she doesn't know the full story; there will be time for that when she knows how angry she should be. For now, it's set aside for more important things, like the comfort Arthur seeks as he squeezes and shifts into her embrace.

She gives him a full-armed squeeze in return. Not too tight, but tight enough that it toes the line between comfort and protection. What ultimately floats up to the surface from that underlying anger is sadness, regretful sympathy softening her words as she thinks back to what he told her in their very first conversation, when she asked what he was most passionate about.

Getting my friend back to his family.]

I'm sorry. That's not something you should have to bear. [Helping his friend, agreeing to aid in shouldering that burden, is one thing. Noble and kind, difficult but not unfair in a loving relationship. Having that trust and love taken advantage of, though, and still carrying the weight of responsibility for the outcome—

Well. There's still a little anger bubbling beneath it all.]

[ Anger, raw and untamed, bubbles over the tether; that breeze has picked up into a howl, whipping across the branches. In a way, he recognizes the vicious heat of it—she'd felt this way, when her mirror had been giving chase. This isn't muted, though, not like she'd been when she was trying to keep the emotion from flaring across their connection. She'll get a mild surprise in turn, followed by a familiar sense of gratefulness.

Kalmiya doesn't have the whole story and already, she bristles at the weight that's been dropped on his shoulders. There aren't any words to express how relieving it is, to have someone else get it. At the stronger loop of her arms, he curls into the embrace. ]

I couldn't let him go and try to do it on his own. Mal was his wife—those are her kids, too. [ Without Dom, they'd have no parents. Sure, they had their grandparents, but it wasn't the same.

Underneath of that, there's something else, a memory that's been tinged by grief; Dom, red-faced and giddy, dressed to the nines as he's slung an arm over Arthur's shoulders. Mal, just off to the other side of her newly-wedded husband, trying and failing to support him in her equally tipsy state. She's giggling under her breath as Dom leans in, asking with slurred but utmost sincerity: "Arthur, since I married Mal, does that make you my best friend now too?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it does." ]

[While a moment ago gave her some answers, the information he gives her now—paired with the glimpse of bittersweet memory attached to it—raises more questions. Truthfully, she's wondered a bit at the depths of the relationship between Arthur and Mal. However, she has no tangible basis for that curiosity, only her own limited frame of reference for relationships. This does explain her nightmarish farewell—do give Dom my regards—in a way that puts a pit in Kalmiya's stomach.

But what happened? Arthur said Mal has been gone for a few years; does that have something to do with why Dom was separated from their children? Have they really been away from both of their parents in that time?

Inquisitiveness buzzes at the forefront of her brain, but ultimately Kalmiya doesn't voice any of those questions.] I understand. I would have gone, too.

[There's a twist to her mouth that would resemble a smile if there was anything like joy in it. Instead, it's a wry sort of bitterness that underscores her observation.] Of course, I've taken lives for smaller betrayals, so I think you're well within your rights to be a little cross with them. [A purrito is not nearly enough to make up for that!]

[ Without more context, the picture would be difficult to piece together. There's so much he hasn't said; how Mal died, why Dom ran, why their kids have been left with a grandmother. Why Mal had shown up in the dream, so unearthly beautiful and twisted in a way she'd never been in life.

He can feel the queries sitting just on the other side of their connection. They press like a hand to glass. None of them spill over, though, and whatever she wants to ask remains unspoken. Arthur's not sure if he feels relieved or anxious, all of his emotions stirred up. ]

I know. [ There, though, is a slice of sunlight, however hazy it might be. Kalmiya loves with every fiber of her being and the steel of her spine keeps her firmly planted, unswayed by difficulty. So he believes her, wholeheartedly, when she says she would have done the same thing. She would have chased after Cobb. Maybe she would've had a better time of it than he has, because he just couldn't seem to bridge the gap that Mal's death had laid between them.

With a sigh, he gives her another half-hug from his current position, expression a bit of a mirror to her own. ]

How small of a betrayal are we talking here?

[The emotional chaos kicked up by this conversation might make Kalmiya regret asking, if she weren't so certain that this is something else that needs talking about eventually. This is a more recent wound; not like whatever happened with Mal, which has clearly been in need of attention so long that it has festered into something Kalmiya can't understand.

While there's no need to fuss over every little thing that bleeds, it seems like Arthur has had to dress the wounds on his own for a long time. It's best to have someone to help patch them up every now and then.

Regardless, it doesn't need further prodding right now. And the insistent nagging of her curiosity is quelled by what Arthur asks in return. Once again she slightly adjusts the tuck of her body in response to the embrace—not that there was any space left between them to close, but it's instinct to reassert the touch as the twist of her expression becomes contemplative with recollection.] Well, not too long after I made my pact, I took a job that required another set of hands. So I partnered up with the other fellow that had responded to the posting—not uncommon for adventurers.

When we were done, he tried to run off with my cut.

[Though the playfulness has fallen respectfully from her voice, there's no tremor or weight, nor any disturbance in the Tether, that indicates she finds this burdensome to retell. There's only the straightforward candor of acceptance.] I have excellent aim, so he didn't make it very far.

It wasn't even that much gold. [But of course, it wasn't really about the gold.

The tilt of her head adjusts thoughtfully against the pillow, considering the stray tendrils of ivy that cling to the ceiling.] That was a few years ago. It would take more than that now.

[ There's another small shift, so minute that almost didn't count, as she returns the embrace where she can. Then, her expression grows thoughtful, concentrated as she recalls some event he's asked after.

He'd known she's an adventurer, but it's interesting to hear a snippet of what sort of things she got into. Even if the tale she's recounting isn't what most would say is thrilling. It resonates, though, since as he sets Yusuf's betrayal aside, he's had plenty of other dreamshare people try to do exactly what Kalmiya's unfortunate fellow had done.

And for most of them, it had ended much the same way. ]

You use a bow? [ Or is there aiming involved with magic? He has no idea. ] A lot of gold or not, it's the principle.

[ Letting people off the hook when they steal right in front of your face was a recipe for disaster. She makes a good point—that now, a small handful of money wouldn't amount to the same punishment. Something he feels he can agree with, to a certain extent. ]

Priorities change with time, usually.

[There's a delighted laugh at the suggestion that she would have used something like a bow, as if he's just told a wonderful joke, but it's not unkind; if anything, the joke is at her own expense, at the idea that her specialties could sit anywhere in the realm of the martial.] Gods, no. Well— I suppose I could in an emergency, [accompanied by a wobbling motion of her free hand] but no, I typically use magic. Projectiles, made from the raw arcane energy of the Feywild.

[The hand on his back twitches with the instinct to draw it forth, but futility aborts the motion. Instead of lingering on the dim shade of disappointment that accompanies the fidgeting, she brings a visual to mind: a vaguely orb-shaped mass of swirling substance, iridescent in the way it catches light and collects color but not solid enough to get any sense of a texture, like an arc of electricity or a candle's steady flame. Licks of that captured color flick off and outwards from the spinning white mass in the center, and the whole thing glitters, shedding ultrafine particles of prismatic light as it swells over the vague impression of an empty palm.

Though it's been a few months since she was last able to evoke the gifts of the Feywild, the recollection of the projectile is vivid with detail. As she lets it go, the orb bursts like a balloon filled with liquid as it makes impact, spilling into globules of glittery particles which then dissipate from her mind's eye.

The restless hand on his back draws idle spirals on his shoulder blade with her index finger, the sounds of the dusky forest as contemplative as her answer.] What's most important to me hasn't changed that much, to tell you the truth. Only what I'm willing to sacrifice to preserve those things.

[Before being whisked into this world, she was strong enough that a thief running off with what little coin she'd earned didn't endanger the life she was trying to build. And prior to having the magical mycelia of the Feywild ripped from the loam of her being, there were many worse things she could do to someone than kill them.]

[ Situated as he is, the rumble of her laugh vibrates against his cheek, prodding a small smile from him. She tilts her hand back and forth, an estimation of her ability to use a bow, and he's starkly reminded how different their approach to a fight is.

Because, well, he knew she used magic, since she's mentioned it before. And he knows about how she got her power—a contract with a patron, which distinguished her as a warlock, as opposed to a sorcerer or wizard. It's something different to have her describe what she uses in more detail. And then to let the image bloom across the connection; a glittering orb that pulses and flickers with magical translucence, hovering above an open palm. With the way it undulates, the shape seems to be in constant motion, like the push and pull of a tide. Once the power is released, prismatic light streaks off of the loose sphere, exploding into shimmering motes.

Honestly? Kind of cool. ]

Never felt the urge to learn a physical weapon? [ He teases lightly, curiosity piqued on what her other magic looks like. The rustle of a forest at sundown mixes with the typical whir of his own mind, an oddly pleasant layering of sound as they both turn thoughts over. ]

What's most important to you? [ Said with both a quizzical tone and a very faint amusement—this feels similar to the question she'd asked him, over the Murmur: what are you most passionate about?

Hard to believe he'd been so cagey with her, then. ]

[Amusement persists in her expression as she lifts her head to look down at Arthur, a faint arch of challenge in her eyebrows. There's no attempt at all to sound like she's not boasting.] I didn't say that. I've survived this place with a pair of kitchen knives and that crowbar I pointed out to you. [For a warlock cut off from their patron, she thinks she's managed pretty well for herself!

The exaggerated confidence calms in her elaboration.] It's just not my specialty. And in a fair match, I would never best someone for whom it was.

[In a fair match carries some further implications about Kalmiya's usual approach to a fight, though for that she offers no further explanation. Instead she ventures easily into the fuzzy white noise made up of droning electronics and and wind-shaken trees, into the thoughtfulness it represents, arriving immediately at the same recollection of conversation. She better understands the source of that prickliness now.

Her head settles back into the pillow, her words both sentimental and easy, the answer to a question that part of her has always known.] Freedom, always.

[Then a fond little rise of the shoulder, almost a shrug when paired with the slight tilt of her head and her soft, amused smile.] Love, sometimes. More often recently.

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