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When she’d been led away from the gallery in shackles, Merin had whispered three strangled words: coradin se vidasi. An expression from Ancient Sarthi, roughly translated as: “my heart will not beat until I see you again.” From Mal she’d have dismissed it as campy melodrama, but from restrained, repressed Merin, it cut through her like a blade.
Let me tell you something about loss, sweetling. You can either yield to grief, or you can use it. Those are the only two choices, in the end.
