[ She smells like blood and leather and churned earth— but her hair still holds on to the heady mingle of sandalwood and sun-warmed roses in full bloom that is her scent in summer.

After a moment, carefully: ​]

Even if you feel it wasted, it... [ she stops, tries again. ] That something ended, it is proof. Proof that it had a beginning. You cannot grieve the loss of a thing you did not, for at least one glorious moment, hold.

But... [ she begins, then trails to silence. Looks at his hands too. There is something helpless and fragile in her voice when she continues, murmurs, ]

There is never enough time. There cannot be enough.

[ That the world turns now is something anathema to her. That the battle will end, and the rest of Riftwatch return to camp with wounds that need tending, with the noise of their conversation. That there will be reports to be given and food to cook and wood to chop. That the sun will set, that her body will tire, that at some point they will be obliged to part and this little bounded space of theirs will break... it makes something in her cling desperately to the moment, fills her chest with an unvoiced cry of piteous childlike denial.

She leans then, too, enough to touch her shoulder to his before closing her eyes to banish the rest of the world. ]