the trick is to keep breathing

When Edea wakes, it's barely dawn outside. The bed beside her is empty. For a moment she feels it all: the horror, the shame, the knowledge of something coming to tear the world apart, coming through her to tear her children asunder. And then she hears something clink -- a spoon against a mug -- and she remembers.

The worst already happened. And here she is. Whole.

She gets up, finds her slippers beside the bed, and goes to sit at her mirror and brush out her hair in long, careful strokes. She can hear the noises in the kitchen, the sound of plates quietly clattering and a hiss as Cid burns his fingers on the toast. She keeps brushing, letting the repetitive motion bring her back to herself, to safety, to home.

"I meant to bring you breakfast in bed," he says, from the doorway, and she looks up. Doesn't stop brushing her hair, tugging the brush gently through a tangle. He comes over to her, kisses the top of her head and puts his hand on her shoulder. "But perhaps we could go out and eat in the garden."

He does not need to ask, Did you dream?

He knows that she did. And here he is to combat it, her knight, her bulwark against the world and against memory. He couldn't prevent it all, in the end, but he's here again now it's over, driving away the dark. Reminding her that there's a life left to live.

Edea puts her hand over his. "I'd like that."

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