She's glad she's alive. She doesn't want to die. But she can't help wishing everything would just stop for a while, give her time to catch her breath and catch up, because this is all too much. The thought of Iman taking her to her own universe, taking care of her indefinitely. The thought of being one more universe removed from home, which shouldn't make a difference when she can't go home, anyway, but it still makes her ache.
The thought of never going home, ever. Never seeing her family again. Never even knowing if they survived, because the Witch couldn't tell her. And if it's only when they die that the Rift takes interest in them, she can't even look forward to the possibility of seeing them in a dream. It would only confirm her worst fears.
Oh, god, she saw Jack in a dream already. What does that mean?
And he found her body. He wept over her. As if she was his own mother. She was never anything of the kind. But she'd promised, and she'd meant it, and she could have been.
Greta can feel herself teetering on the edge of another breakdown, and she can't let it happen, can't subject her friends to it no matter how little they'd mind. Think about something else. Think about nothing. Just stop this. She's only just begun to mourn and she's already so tired of it.
The offer of tea is well timed, and she seizes onto it. Tea. The Balladeer is going to make tea, and she's going to sit up and drink it like a grown-up. Until then, she allows herself to keep clinging to Iman like a child, all but curled up in her lap, her face hidden in the folds of her scarf where no one can see how close she keeps coming to crumpling up again.
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The thought of never going home, ever. Never seeing her family again. Never even knowing if they survived, because the Witch couldn't tell her. And if it's only when they die that the Rift takes interest in them, she can't even look forward to the possibility of seeing them in a dream. It would only confirm her worst fears.
Oh, god, she saw Jack in a dream already. What does that mean?
And he found her body. He wept over her. As if she was his own mother. She was never anything of the kind. But she'd promised, and she'd meant it, and she could have been.
Greta can feel herself teetering on the edge of another breakdown, and she can't let it happen, can't subject her friends to it no matter how little they'd mind. Think about something else. Think about nothing. Just stop this. She's only just begun to mourn and she's already so tired of it.
The offer of tea is well timed, and she seizes onto it. Tea. The Balladeer is going to make tea, and she's going to sit up and drink it like a grown-up. Until then, she allows herself to keep clinging to Iman like a child, all but curled up in her lap, her face hidden in the folds of her scarf where no one can see how close she keeps coming to crumpling up again.
"Yes," she manages.