“Oh my god,” Bunny sat up suddenly, brushing imaginary dirt from his perfectly clean coat. “We burned it. We burned it, and you’re still sniffing the ashes like maybe one of them will explain itself differently this time.”
“I’m not trying to rewrite it,” she said quietly.
Bunny narrowed his eyes. “Then what exactly are we doing, Your Majesty? Because from where I’m sitting—on the ground, in case you hadn’t noticed—this doesn’t feel like strategy. This feels like regret. Or worse…nostalgia.”
Velin’s hand twitched like he might reach for her. He didn’t. Yet.
“I just want to be sure,” she whispered. “Before we cross again.”
That did it. Bunny stood. Slowly. He brushed off his sleeves like he was preparing for war.
“You want to be sure. Okay. Fine. But let’s get one thing straight before we start: You don’t get to dig through the ruins and still call it a foundation.” He took a step closer.
“I didn’t carry baggage over a rickety old bridge watching the two of you hold hands and whisper vows at each other, just to end up in a field! I was promised a kingdom. Yes, I said baggage, not luggage. Luggage holds soft things like silk, velvet, maybe something sparkly. You made me carry a suitcase full of half-burned letters, a broken tea cup and several spools of knotted thread! This isn’t a new beginning, this is…poverty!”
He pointed dramatically around. “There’s no kingdom! There’s a…tent!” He flung it like an insult and flopped back on the ground, arm covering his eyes, like a dramatic victorian heiress in need of pre-occupation.
(Filed under: emotional camping.)