[ If they were capable of talking to each other about these things, Andy might be able to tell her that she understands a little — the awful burden of guilt, the impossible labor of seeking redemption. It's been centuries now. Millennia. She still can't let go of the things she's done — even if anyone she hurt back then is long dead, less than dust on the steppe. It won't ever be enough. She could fight another seven thousand years and it still wouldn't be.

But they don't talk. Not about that. Maybe Andy doesn't even know how to.

The silence drags out between them until Emily finally speaks. The words are the right ones — there's good intention there, an olive branch of a kind maybe. An effort to acknowledge and reassure. Somehow, Andy prefers when Emily had rebuked her. With an exhale, she sets her food down too, brushing her hands off with a subconscious impatience. ]

You don't have to say that shit to me. [ It's low and a little clipped when she answers. ] Maybe I didn't even mean it. Maybe I'm just tired of having the same fucking argument with you when I know you're just going to work yourself to death anyway.

[ Is that the truth? Or is she just being cruel because she doesn't know how else to be when she has these kinds of feelings? ]

Sometimes I don't know what the point of me giving a damn about you even is.