[She might have told him that life is joy, moments that break you, moments that reforge you, knit you anew. Heal you. She knew all these things with his face to them, through much time, through many moments of all of these things. She remembers walking from battle with his blood on her, she remembers the quietness afterward, she remembers everything.
Ril holds onto him tightly and there is so much joy as she leans into him. Her fingers find the nape of his neck, brush through his hair, and there are little touches as if reassuring herself and him that this is not some strange dream.
He is always like coming home, always, and words are not important.
Just hugs and the memories they bring of his arms and apples, of sorrow and hope, and most of all joy. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, and wondering as she smiles.]
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Ril holds onto him tightly and there is so much joy as she leans into him. Her fingers find the nape of his neck, brush through his hair, and there are little touches as if reassuring herself and him that this is not some strange dream.
He is always like coming home, always, and words are not important.
Just hugs and the memories they bring of his arms and apples, of sorrow and hope, and most of all joy. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, and wondering as she smiles.]
I remember this.