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Now, the full moon was days away. He could endure that. He had endured worse, hadn't he?

Then he would find her.

Then he would tell her everything.

Every truth he had to swallow down. Every silence that had killed him a little bit inside. Every mistake he had made, he had to keep his secrets until the next full moon. He was alone in this.

He stood there, staring at the painted face of a woman who had never been given the chance to truly be his mate, and not for the first time the guilt threatened to suffocate him. If only...

I need to live this lie only a little longer.

And he wondered, with a sudden, hollow fear, whether the truth, when finally spoken, would come far too late to matter.

With heavy feet, he made his way to the room where he allowed himself to let himself go, if just a little. The bedroom that was theirs.

It was also the worst place for him as it held every intimate memory with Fae.

Her clothes were gone.

The shelves where they had rested were wiped clean, the wood smooth when his fingers ran over the plank. There was not a stray thread or a forgotten ribbon with a strand of her hair. He could picture her calloused, slender fingers working diligently and carefully, unwilling to leave even the smallest piece of herself behind.

His gaze drifted to the small chest where she kept her jewellery.

He had brought it for her after a trip to a nearby pack and gruffly handed it to her without a word. Occasionally, he would see a piece of jewellery he thought would suit her. A trembling finger opened the lock. Inside lay the carved bone hair combs made from pale river-bone, smoothed until they caught no snags, creamy pearl earrings suspended from thin hooks of darkened silver, small bone beads on a leather thong—a travellers charm for luck. There was the silver pin inlaid with moonstone he had awkwardly given to her, muttering something under his breath but not quite meeting her eyes when he handed it to her. And underneath it all, a band of worked gold and opal. He had fastened it himself while he chanted the ancient joining words, all while she had gone very still as it clicked into place.

She had not taken a single piece.

Why not even one?

Was it because you have no use for it anymore? Like you have no use for me?

A more chilling thought followed.

Or did you never think any of it was truly yours to keep?

The bed stopped him.

There was none of the soft disorder of shared sleep. The blankets were drawn tight, corners sharp enough to cut, the linens smoothed until they held no memory of bodies. There was no hollow where she curled instinctively under the blankets. No longer was there a place where he had reached in the dark and found her hair beneath his fingers.

It all felt final.

It felt like she had returned the house to him the way it had been before her—before her warmth, before her quiet persistance in the face of his silence, before her presence had woven itself into the walls.

She had taken nothing she didn't bring.

Blaidd sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before he moved.

The laundry basket stood where it always had, tucked beneath the low table by the bedside. When he reached for it, his movements were slow with hope.

His fingers brushed cloth.

A smock lay folded at the bottom—plain, work-worn, and overlooked by Fae in her mission to erase herself from his life. The linen was soft from use, thinned at the elbows, faintly marked where she had wiped her hands without thinking. There was an oil stain which never washed clean.

For a moment he simply held it, staring, breath held painfully in his chest.

Then he brought it to his face.

The scent struck him immediately—clean linen, wood-smoke, and unmistakably her. The smell of home as it had been when she still moved through the rooms.