You'd tell her: live.

[wintersday]

You’d take her hands, and she’d shake her head. She’d know her fate, and more than that, her choice. You’d tell her anyway, so you don’t feel the unspoken word like moth wings beating beside your heart.

You turn from the zee and its visions. Perhaps the Indomitable Campaigner sees something in your face when you do, or perhaps it’s only coincidence that she joins you that night for wine. Her own supply, dark, oddly smoky. It warms you from within.

You drink to loves and legends lost. Inside your chest, something bright and fierce takes flight.