Solo Log: "I Don't Think I Could"

**Winter 54(?), 501 AOV  (Flint interlude)**

Xambria watches, silently, as Hoya pushes food around her plate. (*'I don't really have to eat, not in the city',* she had explained, as if that were a good enough excuse. *'I think I can get away without sleeping, too.'* The medium offers this as if her wife isn't smart enough to piece together the unspoken: she *knows* that neither is necessary because she has gone *without*. Unsurprisingly, Xambria is not convinced.)

"Eat something."

So over the course of the half-hour, the archaeologist watches as her wife picks at her dinner, and waits silently as the other does so. She's only taken a few bites when she finally glances up again, wide blue eyes distant. Xambria finds herself frowning, uncomfortable as the other's gaze stares vacantly right through her, though she waits patiently for her to speak. A minute, then two, then four, then– "Hoya?"

"Have you ever killed anyone, Xambria?" The gnome places her fork on the table, blinking once, her eyes not moving from an invisible spot on the wall. It's just now that she notices the dark circles beneath them. "Not as Sijhen. And not an accident. *You.*"

She considers the question, her frown deepening. Not for the first time, she wishes again for the perspective she'd had from inside Hoya's head. Xi searches for another answer, a way to dodge the pressing weight of the inquiry, and comes up short. "No."

"...what if I have to?"

Hoya's voice is small. Scared, as she pushes her plate away, folding herself up and relishing in the sense of security, however fleeting it is. Across the table, Xambria can't help but wonder what the gnome had encountered in her weeks away that brought, of all questions, this one to the front of her mind.

"Then…you'll have to," Xi answers carefully. She slides to the same side of the low table, untangling Hoya's fingers from her hair and then slipping her sweater over the other's thin shoulders. When she isn't pushed away, she pulls her against her side, wrapping an arm protectively around her.

They sit like that for a long while, the untouched dinner growing cold and the medium tightly held to her wife's side. The small window that allows the evening sunlight in turns dark, earlier than ever as winter sets truly in. Risur, and Flint by association, doesn't ever get truly *cold*, but she shivers in the cool breeze anyway. Xambria doesn't move to fetch a blanket despite her instinct to do so, and instead draws Hoya closer, running her hand over her arms to try and generate warmth.

"I don't think I can."

It's not a surprising answer, not really. Not when she'd cried for weeks after inadvertently killing Olivert, when she'd agonized over the tithe asked of them regarding Ekossigan, when she'd mourned the souls trapped in the witch oil that could be neither helped nor freed. But what her answer lacks in surprise it makes up for by being concerning.

"Hoya, there are people out there that will stop at *nothing* to kill you." She shifts, resting palms against the gnome's cheeks and physically turning her so their eyes can meet. Her ability to emote is limited somewhat by her artificial nature, but she presses every bit of concern into her expression anyway and hopes it's enough. "You can't just roll over and *die* because you're not willing to–"

She is fixed with an uncomfortable, otherworldly stare as Hoya finally meets her eyes. Something about it is distant, as if she's being looked straight through instead of at.

"Could *you* do it?"

Careful, she brushes a loose curl out of the other's face, shoulders sinking. For all her bluster, all the gravity of the situation, she realizes that her answer is no better. Hoya must realize this, the severity of her expression crumpling as she scrubs a sleeve across her eyes with quaking shoulders.

"I don't know," Xambria finally answers, quiet. This time when she pulls her close, the wetness of tears seeps into her blouse and she presses a hand to the back of a curly head and rocks them both, as much to soothe her own nerves as her Knight's. "I guess I'm not any more sure I could do it than you."

So they rock, an uneaten and now frigid dinner sits on the table, the night grows dark, and Hoya cries. This–some combination of worries, regrets, tears–is becoming a common occurrence on the rare nights she has Hoya home, and for all her academic achievements she can't figure out how to make it any better.

"You're only home for tonight," Xambria finally murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Hoya's head. "And we can't solve this, not right now. Just…enjoy being here, with me. We can do that, right?"

Xambria resigns herself to getting no answer. Instead, she just hopes that what little comfort she can offer amounts to something, and continues to murmur soft reassurances until Hoya is asleep in her arms and her quiet *I don't think I could* sits far enough away from her consciousness that she can breathe again.