[ She has to say it back, disbelief palpable, but she knows she didn't mishear. Her eyes are narrowed, expression confused as her mind tries to muddle through the logic of this. She was on the lift, the sisters tending carefully to her. One of them had stitched her up while the Citadel celebrated. They had fetched her water and forced her to rest as not to aggravate her injures. All of them had piled into the war room together, but even with her bone-deep exhaustion, Furiosa fought sleep. For a few hours, she tinkered with her arm in her lap under the light of the stars. Eventually, she put that aside to watch the sky until sleep must have taken her.
Now, her wounds are stitched back together, no doubt done in her sleep, flesh mended with the type of technology the History Man might have described once, or something she read from the yellowed pages of the encyclopedias in Joe's vault. Neat scars take their place. Time alone wouldn't have given her these results, not in the Wastes.
A day for her. A year for him. That doesn't make sense.
Two options: the Citadel collapsed, peace to tenuous and the strength of the sisters and her leadership not enough to hold it up. Or, and Furiosa suspects this one is more likely, in that year he made no visits, gave the sisters no chance to load up his pack with potatoes and ammunition, to strap down jugs of water and guzz.
She sucks in a breath, struck by the sting of this choice, a hurt that is so firmly mental and emotional she feels stupid for feeling it so suddenly and so strongly. It's not as if confirmation changes anything. This is not who she is.
(But perhaps she had hoped. Something together, twisting the way he had said that around in her mind.)
Her throat bobs, a swallow as she resolves herself. Their partnership had been a blip. A world-shifting blip, but temporary all the same.
She should take her hand back, but still she lets him hold onto her wrist, the string that ties them together wound around her palm. She looks at it, then drags her eyes back to his face, even if his eyes evade her. ]
no subject
[ She has to say it back, disbelief palpable, but she knows she didn't mishear. Her eyes are narrowed, expression confused as her mind tries to muddle through the logic of this. She was on the lift, the sisters tending carefully to her. One of them had stitched her up while the Citadel celebrated. They had fetched her water and forced her to rest as not to aggravate her injures. All of them had piled into the war room together, but even with her bone-deep exhaustion, Furiosa fought sleep. For a few hours, she tinkered with her arm in her lap under the light of the stars. Eventually, she put that aside to watch the sky until sleep must have taken her.
Now, her wounds are stitched back together, no doubt done in her sleep, flesh mended with the type of technology the History Man might have described once, or something she read from the yellowed pages of the encyclopedias in Joe's vault. Neat scars take their place. Time alone wouldn't have given her these results, not in the Wastes.
A day for her. A year for him. That doesn't make sense.
Two options: the Citadel collapsed, peace to tenuous and the strength of the sisters and her leadership not enough to hold it up. Or, and Furiosa suspects this one is more likely, in that year he made no visits, gave the sisters no chance to load up his pack with potatoes and ammunition, to strap down jugs of water and guzz.
She sucks in a breath, struck by the sting of this choice, a hurt that is so firmly mental and emotional she feels stupid for feeling it so suddenly and so strongly. It's not as if confirmation changes anything. This is not who she is.
(But perhaps she had hoped. Something together, twisting the way he had said that around in her mind.)
Her throat bobs, a swallow as she resolves herself. Their partnership had been a blip. A world-shifting blip, but temporary all the same.
She should take her hand back, but still she lets him hold onto her wrist, the string that ties them together wound around her palm. She looks at it, then drags her eyes back to his face, even if his eyes evade her. ]
So you didn't come back.