and the sound and the fury (and the quiet and the bell)
Doesn't it?
When they stand at the edge of Dannagh, overlooking, they're not thinking about the arid crumble of the sand; they're not thinking about the fact that Omrantha, among all populaces of Coeia, no longer stands and Torna, if it fell now, would sink with Aureus's peak to the sky.
They forget, in a quiet unison, that there are others behind them - that Mythra, of all people, waits closely and impatiently by. That Milton is hungry but has learned not to say it not because his feeling is ill-placed but because he takes a sense of the overall urgency, and becomes curious about the type of world it is that would even find fit to yield someone to take him in; how he could become that mature in his aid, dining on more than just smiles.
They forget, in a half-dimmed sense, that Lora's quest had turned itself out to be fruitless, if one considers conveniently closured mourning, burial site and all, fruitless, and that Jin and Haze could not have helped her any more than they have, and have, and have, but for the fact that she is helpless. That Mikhail still has not learned to smile. That Hugo has no great wish to return to the palace, and Brighid and Aegaeon stand resolute, just the same alongside.
They stand silently conversing of a forgotten future, of a promise that Minoth never let Addam make, of a memento gifted in the dark, of a smile that he's not sure he's ever truly seen, of memories blocked and fuzzy and worrisome.
It means nothing, to stand here. It's wasting time, if it drags on more a minute of their time spiraling out, as Malos will act and then again as he won't.
Is Flora waiting? Is the world waiting?
Are they so special, as to merit a happy ending?
(Requisite: tragedy.)
They are not impatient. They are not hungry. They are not looking for someone lost. They are not damaged beyond repair. They have smiles, and homes, and sorrows. They have. They are replete with having, with privilege, with the choice to be so smart they're stupid, when it comes to the real world and how people function.
Yet it all means nothing.
"Do you think..." comes the gravel of Addam's rarely-hesitant voice, and he stops only because he realizes he's forgotten the question; until Minoth stops him, he'll speak on forever, for the chance that it'll do anyone any good, and in this minute circle that rule does pay, contrary to reticence.
"Either it is or it isn't," Minoth replies. "Will or won't be. You think there's anything more we could do?"
We could send her away. Somewhere else safe; we have the resources to do it.
"We're doing our best."
Far away, just across the chasm, Flora, too, wonders. She finds it now not within her capability, her consistently firm and sense-making nature, to catastrophize. Either it will be or it won't.
She knows that peace is hard to come by, now. Is that why they sent the servants (the staff, you'd like to call them, but you're the bourgeoisie, aren't you) away? Is that why you're pretending compromising, by making a militia camp your home?
Turn away, frail soldiers. Go do something about it. Make your mind up. Will you or won't you?