It didn’t have to be this way. He could end it at any time. She was only a child. Did he know that? Did he forget? Children don’t know any better. It’s not fair to blame her. She doesn’t know any better. Tell her he’s sorry. She’s crying. She’s screaming. He’s supposed to help her. He’s supposed to make it all better. There are crashing teacups, there are assassins in retreat, there are butterfly wings, there are fragments of a shattered leg echoing, echoing, a table cracking, a foot stomping, and then there is her crying. One, and the other. His skull strains to contain it all. She pours out her tears, until she has no more to give, and that is the worst sound of all. Tell her he’ll fix it. She’s scared. She’s [i]scared.[/i] Hear the stupid little voice. It’s saying she’s in trouble too, isn’t it? It’s warning of something far worse in this garden, isn’t it? Won’t she have to face it, alone, if she fails to stop him? Isn’t there anything he can do? Aren’t they in the same boat? If he doesn’t reach his hand out, who will? Tell her anything. Make this right. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. (silence) Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. (silence) Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. (numb) Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. (numb, numb, everywhere) Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. (no point, in pain) Tell her. Tell her. (no change, no pain) Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. (don’t hope) Tell her. Tell her. (don’t hope) Tell her. (don't hope) Tell her. (wait) Tell her. (don’t hope) Tell her. (wait) Tell her. (don’t hope) Tell her. (she might start again) Tell her. (don't hope) Tell her. (she might start it again) Tell her. (wait) Tell her. (she might) be asleep don’t wake her easy. That is easy. Dolce of Beri can stay quiet. Easy. He can breathe. Soft. Slow. Soft and slow. His body needs no noise to hold his lifeblood in, to build a knee piece by piece. All it needs is time, and energy. Time, and energy. Soft, and slow. Smell the rose. Take it in. Appreciate the aroma, the craftsmanship, to grow something so lovely. Feel the sun. It must be there. There. At the edges, faintly warm, surely. It must be there. Sink into the soil. He’s walked so far. He’s worked so hard. He’s done such a good job, not waking her. Sink into the soil. Lie still and quiet. Good sheep. [i]Good[/i] sheep. There will be no noise. There will be no pain. They both will sleep so, so soundly. But. But there is a can, a weight held in a thick glove that must be his hand. It’s a good can. It’s a lovely can. It’s safe and it’s whole, and he hasn’t told the person who made it what a good job they did making it. Even if all he can do is keep it safe and whole. But there isn’t a sword in his hand, or maybe there isn’t a sword at his belt, and he cannot afford to waste his shot here. But Dolce of Beri cannot remember how to crawl away without leaving a trail to follow. This was the entire reason his body was taught the trick instead. Servants of the Family must attend to their every need and whim, whatever they may be. The education of the Manor was thorough. No flower will sway against the breeze. No trail will be found in ground or foliage. No insect will be startled into flight. But he is thinking this crawling might be a sort of revenge too, and she might laugh to hear him say so. [Rolling to Get Away: 5 + 1 + 1 = 7. Dolce gets away quietly, drawing no attention.]