this tragic affair

Circe. The name makes her head swim, the reminder of who it belongs to making her dizzy, her brain fuzzy. Circe made her breakfast of the hare you left. It was not for the harlot's daughter, but she does not comment -- how can she? She has no right to judge, no right to be upset. She did this. Our den. She catches on those words, disgruntled by the idea that our does not mean him and her, but him and his daughter; she is alone here under the redwood in the home he left for her. When had he made this little cave, so perfect for her? Had he known she would return (though doesn't she always)? "Oh. You're welcome," she finally comments, realizing she has been silent a long while, dazed by her muddle thoughts, one running into the next and she can never seem to find clarity now, knowing he is here, here with her but not with her and she turns her ragged gaze to him just as his muzzle falls to his paws, and oh she wants nothing more than to go to him. But she remains still, uncertain and sprawled upon the earth as though it is her only friend, biting her lip and biding her time. "De?" she finally ventures, her voice a quiet breath, a tepid exhale on the crisp morning air, vying for his attention, his warmth, his anything but this aloofness between them.

Table by Azil