Tayman touched her face, gently, wiping at the lone tear forming below her eye.

“Beata,” he warned, “If you cry for the one, then you must cry for the many. Will you be able to swim in the sea of it all?”

She shook her head; that much grief would drown her. “There is no value, then, in tears?” she asked.

“No,” he replied. “If you start, can you ever stop? How many waves crashing in that ocean can you withstand?”

For all those years, she did not cry. Not when the grief of Tayman’s passing drove her beyond the borderlands, into the wilding. Not at the thought of her lives that could have been. Not for the voices of her dead.

“Not now,” she said to herself, feeling again that lone tear pricking. “Not at his kindness; not at his warmth.”

Thomas cradled her as a child; she mourned what never was. Tears of regret, loss and emptiness. And, now, there were tears of an inner sense of infinite possibilities; the slight intake of breath laden with hope.

“There is value in tears,” she said, thinking Tayman’s ghost might still hover. “When cried with love.” She wished a small tear would form on his ethereal face.

scrawled/scrawling for #tuesdayuseitinasentense: value

image: Escher