Saying Goodbye by The Wavesinger

Saying Goodbye

“I do not want to leave, my lady,” Fíriel says.

“I do not want you to leave,” Mírlótë replies, and her breath puffs against Fíriel's mouth, her skin pressing on Fíriel's where their foreheads touch. “But there is nothing to be done.” Mírlótë cannot associate closely with openly Faithful people, or even have them in her household, if there is to be someone who can counterbalance the new King without arousing too much suspicioun.

“I—” Fíriel swallows, and stops. This same conversation has been had before, and Fíriel leaves tomorrow. It is a waste of words, a waste of time, to go over it again.

And so they sit on Mírlótë's bed, foreheads touching, and wait, silently, for the night to pass.