Dahlia cursed the fact that she didn’t really have two arms to work with just then, but she wasn’t about to let a little pain stop her from holding Quinn as close as was physically possible. Her good arm wrapped around her pulled her in so tight she felt the pad on her back straining, and her undershirt grew wet on the shoulder. She didn’t care. 

“[color=skyblue]I couldn’t—they wouldn’t—all they told me was you were still fighting! Then I saw it on the TV, there were so many! I’m sorry I’m so sorry, we had another one open near us, I couldn’t get up here in time to help.[/color]” She pulled back, hand clasped on Quinn’s cheek. Her eyes flashed, scanned her over for wounds, anything bleeding, anything serious. “[color=skyblue]God I thought you were gonna die. They said [i]six[/i] came out I thought…I thought Eain might…[/color]”

She still saw that Modir in her dreams. Saw it stalking towards Quinn, and all she could do was lie there helpless and broken. She’d tried so hard, put in so much time since then, and it hadn’t mattered at all. Quinn had been alone, and vulnerable, and…

And she’d lived anyway. 

Dahlia looked at her again, [i]really[/i] looked at her. Tear-streaked, dirty, exhausted, and yes, beaten hard by the enemy but undeniably alive. Victorious. Her sister had stood against deathly odds most pilots would never have walked away from. It struck her with sudden, incredible shame that she might have, in some way, been thinking of her as [i]weak[/i]. 

Who could have been more wrong?

Dahlia pulled her in again, breathing her lungs empty. “[color=skyblue]Love you so much,[/color]” she wheezed. “[color=skyblue]You were always coming back. Always.[/color]”