She hadn't ever really recovered from the Moon. Something about being that near to the God of Destruction's body and it's simmering, bubbling, batshit-insane mind had twisted strings and snapped others in the framework of Shana's mind.
He'd find her walking, miles away, a white pebble in one hand, her unstrung bow in the other, crying. Or she'd be doing the dishes, and drop every finished plate on the floor.
And then she'd fallen ill. She didn't leave her bed much.
They'd moved to the edge of town, where she seemed to be a bit better. Or at least, where the neighbours couldn't see. They knew anyway, and taught him how to cook and clean and care for a house.
Shit, said Meru, a half-eaten roll in one hand. The kitchen had dimmed as the sun had gone down, and was growing cold.
Dart shrugged. We get on all right, he murmured.
Yeah, but still. Shit. Said Meru. I'm sorry Dart.
He smiled without really meaning it, and shrugged again. Don't worry. She'll be better soon. His eyes lifted up to meet hers, and he asked, Wanna stay so I can make you dinner?
Later, she'd think of it as one of the few times she'd actually connected with Dart, sitting at his table drinking hot sweet tea and eating fried rabbit. And she knew then that she couldn't leave him here with his little mad girl wife who used to be someone and his rolls and his cooking and neighbours that pitied him so much.
Shana never came out of her room that night.