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just how broken she was.
You do not yield.
She knew that had been true—that it had
been her mother’s voice who had spoken and
none other.
So she would not yield to this. What had
been done. What remained.
For the companions around her, to lift their
despair, their fear, she wouldn’t yield.
She’d fight for it, claw her way back to it,
who she’d been before. Remember to swagger
and grin and wink. She’d fight against that
lingering stain on her soul, fight to ignore it.
Would use this journey into the dark to piece
herself back together—just enough to make it
convincing.
Even if this fractured darkness now
dwelled within her, even if speech was
difficult, she would show them what they
wished to see.