“Oh, the intrepid Tarnished. You have returned…”

Count Ymir sat upon his throne in the middle of the darkened cathedral, regarded only by his empty congregation. Dust motes swirled in the candlelight as you disturbed the air, walking with care down the centre of the pews. Slowing your gait, you tried to lessen the sound with each progressive footstep. The world was quiet here. The man before you was calm, his voice emanating in the same timbre of the building itself, his words the creaking of the rafters. Something skittered in a corner, just out of sight, as something small and indistinguishable keened in the graveyard outside.

“Count,” you addressed him by title, “I have done as you asked. The second bell has been rung.”
The phrasing sounded far too passive for the journey you’d just endured, but you decided to present the tale with humility as this always seemed to delight him the most. He reminded you a little of Seluvis, in that way. If he felt he was moulding you in some way, he was a great deal happier. You were shrewd enough to notice that – and to play your part in the illusion where needed. After all, it pleased you too.

There was something shadowed in his gaze as he regarded you, but the languid smile of a teacher pleased with his protégé was unmistakable. “Mm, quite.” Your heart swelled a little at the chuckle. “I heard the sound of the tolling from here. Simply exhilarating, I must say…” Pride bloomed in your breast and you averted your gaze, suddenly shy. Pretending to admire your surroundings, you looked skywards. Glowing above you, hung from the lofty ceiling like so many scattered stars, were lanterns burning with flames of teal. The magical grease within made the smoke smell tart, almost acidic, as it reached you.

“The stars are dark tonight – but rest assured, this is no ill-omen…” He didn’t sound convinced of this and glanced up, as though he could see right through the ceiling to the vastness of the cosmos. He took a moment to ponder before returning to look back at you. Trailing off mid-speech, he seemed to see you – really see you – for the first time since your arrival. It had been a long trip from the ruins and you hadn't the chance to rest before returning. Something about the Count compelled you not to let him down, so you'd pressed on. Now here, you had spoken of your successes, choosing not to linger on the dead-end paths, the stumbles and falls, the contracting maws of so many vile lampreys. He regarded you with an air of mild amusement initially, though his eyes narrowed at a slight slurring of your words. Suddenly roving across your body, scanning for injury, he caught upon various imperfections. The way you held your weapon, limp and ineffectual. Your posture, shoulders sagging and leg locked, holding your weight so you didn't sway on the spot.

“Would you mind awfully if I asked you to remove your helm? I do prefer to speak face-to-face, especially when the subject in question is one of my students.” It was obviously a ploy to get a look at you, but you reached to oblige him. It wasn’t as though you were hiding your sorry state well regardless. You were barely standing. Let him see the reality of it all – stark, wounded, and true. Perhaps a small moment making camp at a Site of Grace might not have gone amiss… You focused on not glancing back at the one you’d scurried past in the entranceway. Head now uncovered, you faced him unguarded. Your face, tempered though it was by your experiences in this land, betrayed your exhaustion. Bruising clouded the surface of your skin, while heavy eyelids threatened to close. A muscle beneath your eye was twitching as you slowly, unwillingly, met the scrutiny of his gaze. You felt naked without your helm, as though you’d pulled up your shirt to reveal the bloodied skin beneath.

“You have not adequately rested prior to your arrival.” It was a statement, not a question. Your mouth half-opened, then shut again. His chest swelled for a moment with a sigh that could only be described as haughty. It was evident in the way he examined you that he was passing judgment. He held the fussing expression of a parent, disapproving only because they understood that they couldn’t influence your actions no matter how sensible the suggestion. Your fingers twitched against your helm, wishing to replace it if only to allow the small smile pulling at your lips to fully form. It was quite enjoyable to be fussed over. Surprisingly so. Though you lived such a solitary life nowadays, that flicker of care ignited something in your soul. It endeared you to this man, in a way that you were not endeared to certain other sorcerers. A softness flitted across his features, settling upon them, fitting perfectly into each line. The arrogant visage of the educator had been overlaid by something of deeper import, a higher calling. It suits him, you thought, to be tender.

Tenderness. Was that what it was? You studied him more closely.

It was more than his calm voice, more than an offer of a comforting hand. He surely encompassed a thoughtful role but there was also a rigidity that ventured alongside it - a sense of guardianship - that reached its fingers deep into your mind. Reminded you of something… or someone. Murky images stirred at the bottom of your subconscious, sightless creatures disturbing sediment in the depths of a cloudy lake. Two of them… perhaps. They were so difficult to make out. Every time you moved towards them, you kicked up dirt in blooms that obscured that knowledge once again. Frustrated, you kept trying to grasp at the memories. You felt as though they were people you had once known… People that made you feel this same way - cared for, guarded, conflicted.You were so small… Had they meant something to you? Reaching desperately, you tried to follow but your movements were sluggish and your legs mired to the knees in the mud of what had been forgotten. Was this…? Were they your…?

They were just out of reach, whoever they were. Reaching down with your outstretched hands, you closed around nothing but shadows. Pulling back, you gasped for breath. A scampering sounded on the stone floor, crossing close behind. When you glanced back, there was nothing.

Vaguely, with great effort, you realised he was speaking to you, with heightened concern. “…Oh, I feared I had lost you to some trickery of the great divines! That you had borne witness to some sorry affair far beyond your grasp. The way those eyes peered so sightlessly…” You allowed the image of Count Ymir to swim back into focus, the furtive chase for some scrap of your past life lost once again. Always lost. You felt so heavy, the tiredness sinking to your bones. “Pray tell, what is on your mind?”

“It’s…” You trailed off, contemplating honesty. He leaned closer, drinking you in. You squirmed, not overly wishing to bare your deepest memories… especially not as you couldn’t recall them yourself. “It’s nothing.”

“Would that I believed that.” He smiled, not unkindly. His head tilted, as though getting a better angle on the situation. “You are at the very least, utterly exhausted. Worn through. In dire need of a moment’s respite.” He waited, as though expected you to agree. You didn’t wish to burden him with your fatigue, whether it be the kind that left you scrabbling for ancient memories, desperate for a soft place to rest your head, or hungry for the affections of a kindly figure. However, his expression was open and accepting. It was difficult to find reasons as to why you shouldn’t give in.

A stern edge remained to his tone as he paused, sensing your hesitance as you tried to keep it all within. “Tarnished. I only wish to be of service.” He reached out to take your helm from your weary hands. You didn’t fight him. Bending to the floor, he placed it respectfully on the stone with barely a clink. “If you will not speak, you must allow for me to ease your burdens in another manner entirely.” Oblivious, you stared, saying nothing. “Oftentimes, mere conversation is not nearly enough to unwind such matters that trouble us so. Perhaps we can proceed to a different methodology… A steady hand, perhaps?” Though his words were quite forward, the way in which he offered them was temperate, soothing. He had not moved from his throne, but seemed to loom closer, half-cloaked in shadow.

“Come, child. Allow me to observe, to touch, as the celestial bodies cannot.” A quiet, rueful smile blossomed as he was momentarily lost in the allusion. You couldn’t help but wonder if he had much human contact out here, night-to-night. Somehow, you doubted it. Looking at his face, you couldn’t place his age. He had all the worldliness of an aged man, with the wishful future-gazing of one much younger. Appearance seemed to be incidental to a person like this, though you felt a certain comfort when you looked upon his form regardless. Perhaps it was just the setting, the grandiose cathedral with all its secrets? Perhaps it was your nearing delirium? Or, perhaps, this – like all things – was as preordained as he would have you believe?

You took a deep breath, giving a short nod. Shuffling closer, within arms’ reach, you waited patiently. Had he called you child?

With interest, you noted how he slid each glove from his spindly hands, placing them gently beside him. The way he moved was captivating – slow, methodical, everything with its own order. You could not hope to understand it in full, but the effect was satisfying. Like a willow bowing in the breeze, his arm swept soundlessly to your chin. His thumb, strangely narrow and elongated, brushed your jaw. A realisation rippled across your mind - you could feel the ridges of his fingerprints as they slid across your skin. Though not rough, they were strongly defined - far more so than anyone else you’d ever had the pleasure – or misfortune – of being touched by. Not that you’d felt many touches as of late for comparison. As his hands carded through your hair, combing and neatening as he went, soft tingles ran the length of your body.

The surrounding air was wrought with a chill, causing you lean closer. Suddenly, he felt like the only source of warmth in the whole of the Shadowlands, a sputtering candle-flame that you curled around protectively – greedily. He shifted to allow this closeness, not ceasing his motions. As you reached for his face to return the exploratory touch, thin but firm fingers encircled your wrist. Deftly, you were deflected, rerouted, and your hands fell to rest in your lap. He needed not to say a word, for you understood. Don’t touch. You could all but hear his voice inside your skull, lilting in that low cadence. Now is not the time to seek my own satisfaction. You are the student, the exhausted progeny of fate, so you shall receive.

He spoke, in actuality this time, with an undercurrent you couldn’t quite put your finger on. “Now, allow yourself a moment of pleasure, hm? You have done so well.” The praise stirred something in the pit of your stomach, warmth spreading at the smooth roll of his ‘r’ as it met your ears. Unconsciously, you leaned ever-closer. Realising you were holding your breath, you relinquished it at once in a breathless, shameless exhale.

“It’s nice… to relax.”

He murmured in response, so low you had to lean in to catch it. “Surely so. What is yet to come will be nicer, still.” His tone dripped with the loftiness he put on when you hadn’t understood a core concept in one of his lessons – mild amusement at your expense, but never ill-intentioned. The tone of one that knew with certainty they had something of value to impart, for the betterment of the other. His confidence was alluring, holding your full attention as he drew himself into a seated position that was almost regal.

What is yet to come? Surely, he wasn’t implying…?

“You have performed your role admirably, thus far. Rest, now. I shall take care of you, body and mind. Perhaps even soul, too, though that shall be decided by the stars.”

A small glimmer as his smile exposed teeth. The temptation, itself a sharp glint in the darkness.

You opened your mouth to protest, but you were so tired. Would it really be the worst thing to be taken care of? To have a moment of rest that was given, not stolen? Everything felt so heavy, your eyes glistening in the dull lamplight. Meeting his gaze, vulnerable yet captivated, he seemed satisfied.

“Think nothing of it. I have made my decision to be of help.”

He indicated for you to come closer. You stumbled forwards on unsteady feet, coming to kneel clumsily before him. Your knees hit the ground hard and you grimaced. Another bruise. “Oh, goodness, no. Rise, my dear. Bring yourself to me.” Following his gesturing hand to his throne, to his lap, you felt heat creep into your face. You stood, looking at the sides of the seat as though there might be room elsewhere for you to squeeze in beside him. He raised a brow at your reticence, not moving an inch. His long coat seemed to move on its own as though it wished to reach out and envelop you, rippling gently in anticipation. A trick of the light, you supposed.

He beckoned you in, drawing you down into a gentle embrace. Awkwardly, you sank into his touch, coming to rest upon his cloaked thighs. Facing sidewards, the way you might if you were riding Torrent in a robe, you felt strangely vulnerable. Sensing your difficulty with the position, he brought you around to face him, placing your legs fully astride him. Though your vulnerability heightened with the movement, this felt... right. This close, you could breathe his scent – all inkblots and the ozone-crackle of glintstone. His eyes settled on you, carrying that same contented look as they had when you’d told him of your success at the ruins.

The way he regarded you so intimately gave you no room to feel undeserving. With others, you had felt that perhaps you - like the moon for those foolish Carian sorcerers he spoke of - may simply have been the closest body to worship. This was not so with Ymir. He was attentive, gentle. His manicured nails trailed along your neck, leaving nary a mark. Like all else, he was poised and measured, leaving no indicator he was ever there at all. You wondered if he would, like a distant star, fall neatly inwards when he ceased to be. Passionately fiery within, yet folding into himself until he burned to dust. Would he slip away right here, or was somewhere else promised for him? His own plot below the little garden – or an ascension above? Thinking back on your own death cycle - loud, visceral, wholly unwilling - his existence seemed a counterweight to your own. You, a squall beating against the void; he the enveloping cloak of night and the soft pinpoints glowing within. Perhaps it was fated that you two should meet here once more, just like this. Perhaps it was imperative.

Hairs rose on the back of your neck as he pressed his fingertips to the base of your throat, like a kiss. Stroking upwards he caressed your clavicles, then along to the expanse of your shoulders, trailing once more to come to rest against your scalp. Lightly, fingertips massaged your head in a way that made your head loll in a mixture of comfort and yearning. When he noticed your eyes beginning to close, he pulled his hands back. “Ah ah – not yet.” Chastised, you sighed as he placed his hands at your waist, thumbs taking up the circular motions. These movements had a different effect entirely, feeling a jolt as you imagined them exploring your hips, your thighs, elsewhere.

Sitting in his lap was like sitting in a silken pool – surrounded by swathes of rippling navy that moved beneath your thighs in a way that never toppled you but kept you ever-moving. You braced against it, presuming it to be some sorcery of Ymir’s, as it rose to meet you like the roll of the tide. Though you were clothed, the pressure the fabric exerted between your spread legs was firm, consistent. It was beginning to show on your face that you could feel it, and you captured your lower lip between your teeth to quiet any sounds that might arrive unbidden. Movements flowed into deliberate rhythms, undulating in waves at the apex of your thighs as you leaned into him for support. The tips of your ears burned as you tried to stay afloat. Just as you averted your gaze, studying the floor with great intensity, the Count brought a long finger to your chin. Tipping it gently upwards, you met his eyes as his thumb trailed up to your mouth. His pupils were wide, drinking in every arch of your back, the way your lips parted in a near-silent oh! at the insinuation.

Brushing the tip of his thumb against your lower lip, he explored with a quiet assertiveness that caused you to open up for him without question. Feeling the textured digit slide onto your tongue, you brought the plushness of your lips around it and sucked. Somehow, in that fevered moment, this was the most natural thing in the world. The building was silent, but for your quiet whimpers, the occasional whine made vocal. In your head, you felt you could taste the dirt of the graveyard on his fingertips.

“Positively radiant…” He murmured, nodding, affirming his own judgment. Slowly, tentatively, he moved his hand in time with the minute dipping motions of your head. His thumbpad played across your tongue in languorous swipes, as though encouraging you to take it deeper. The sensation of him sliding in, sliding out, made your mind grow fuzzy around the edges. Combined with your sheer exhaustion, it was near-transcendental. You mumbled wordlessly around him, your delirious tone expressing everything you needed to. Saliva coated his hand as he delved deeper still – never quite touching the back of your throat but leaving the threat of it ever-close. Though your moans were muffled wetly against the meat of his hand, the acoustics of the old cathedral seemed to magnify each groan, each fluctuation in your pleasured exclamations, until the building sang with your bashful hymns.

Dizzily, you ground down into his lap, sure that you were feeling his hard length pressing up against you. It felt impossibly thick for his slender frame, and your eyes widened searchingly. It wasn’t just that it was large, it was also strangely solid. Bony, your mind supplied, but you gave it a shake to dislodge the grim notion. For a moment, you were certain that it moved – a strong, wilful gesture that nearly toppled your balance. “Do you feel them?” He purred against the shell of your ear, elevating his hips to press himself flush to your wanting body. Dimly, you nodded, though you were unsure of what he spoke. Trying to piece it together, your head felt bloodless, coddled. Them? That hardness was curving against you now with great insistence, and you found it hard to follow any other threads.

“Please…” you whispered, by way of response. You couldn’t get any closer, unless he was –

Delicately, with the assistance of a quick sorcery, he slid your clothing from around your legs. Though heavy, armoured, it felt like nothing more than light satin as it slipped from your body to pool on the stone at his feet. Catching your eager hand, he fielded your grasping touch once again, pinning your fingers at the small of your back. Deciding not to admonish you this time, he breathed against your neck, lips brushing at the delicate skin as he whispered. “Mm, now, how does that feel?” he asked, hands gliding across your naked skin, coming to rest at your hips. Though you suspected some part of him wished for you to whisper compliments, obsequious and sweet, you sensed that this was a genuine enquiry.

As you spoke, your voice cracked. “Take care of me… I beg of you.”

Dark fire burned behind his eyes at your words. You shuddered, aglow with heat as you felt something warm press against your entrance. The dusky smoke from the lamps was curling about your body, intertwining between you both, settling upon your skin like the hand of a lover. You pushed back, eager and heated. You wanted – no, needed – this comfort, this fullness. As you felt him tease at your eager opening, you became very aware of the way in which his arms cradled you. One hand cupping the back of your head, gently, like holding a newborn. The other wrapped around your waist, fingers gently stroking against your side, comforting. If both of his hands were here – then what was playing at your entrance, dextrous and bold, brushing in tantalising circles that had you on the verge of desperate tears?

“Now, now. Shh, shhh…” He crooned, petting your hair. In your ear, he whispered as though to allay your questioning mind, sending pleasured tremors creeping down your spine. "Allow yourself to be taken care of… To be mothered..." It was evident from his expression that he was losing some of that teacherly decorum, allowing himself to indulge in his destined role. You trembled in his arms, his voice filling the hollowness in your chest with fond affection. As he spoke, murmuring more sweet nothings, he pressed a dry kiss to your cheek. You quivered in anticipation. His gown quivered beneath you.

Peering from beneath heavy eyelids in latent curiosity, you caught your first glimpse of what lay just under the surface of the dusky blue fabric beneath you. Your stomach clenched tightly, like a fist, unsure at first what you were looking at. Ymir’s robes were parted to reveal a waggling tangle of crowning heads, rippling in unison.

No, not heads.

Fingers.

There were too many to count at a glance, sprouting from Ymir’s flesh from chest to thigh, splitting him open right down the centre. Like spiders, each segmented group – hand? – appeared to be formed of several finger-limbs. The way they moved was lurid, each fingertip birthing itself anew as they splayed themselves further outside the cavity of his body. Fleshy and jointed, they gave the strange overall impression of him being beyond naked, showing something far more scandalous than anything you could proffer in return.

Pushing away from them, you observed for a moment, holding your breath. They seemed to hold back too, ceasing to writhe, as they awaited your move. A couple opened and closed, non-threatening, making and unmaking fists. Ymir’s hands were still upon you, without pressure, thumb still circling at your side in a comforting motion.

The sight of these myriad appendages should have filled you with inconsolable dread, eerie as they were, but instead you began to feel… resigned. In this moment, it was beautiful just to be held. Did it matter by what?. The ice that had splintered in your stomach at the sight of them began to melt, your apprehension easing. You realised you had frozen in place, arms wrapped about yourself like a frightened child. Slowly, gently, you allowed the Count to take each arm and place one hand gently atop them, to feel their current rise and fall. It was plain from the expression on his face – he adored them. You couldn’t bring yourself to find the horror in that. These fingers are just as much a part of him, you thought. Truly, they were perhaps more a part of him than the sets he was born with before he even knew who he was. These ones he had cultivated himself, feeling the maternal swirl and clench in his abdomen as he swelled with pride, enduring much hardship before they were ready to be birthed - struggling and nascent.

To have them shared with you was a blessing.

The thick digit that had been trying to enter you wriggled slowly inside your welcoming walls, as though pleased with your response to their existence. It nestled in, exploratory, prompting a little gasp from you that trailed off into a deep moan as you felt it squirm within. Its sibling brushed against the tender flesh outside, drawing a lustful pattern. The fingers each sprouted with vellus hair, lending them downy softness as they sank further, deeper. They caressed your body, thumbing at your chest, a clothed nipple, as you contracted around their brethren with a breathless cry. They were everywhere, everything. Your own hands felt lesser by comparison, bumbling digits without aim. An apology intended for nobody in particular caught on your tongue as an overlarge fingernail stroked a bundle of nerves that made your toes curl. You settled for gratitude instead.

“Th- thank you…nngh…” you managed, voice feeling louder than necessary as it rang out in the cavernous room. Ymir did not cringe at the interruption, merely smiling serenely down upon you with the grace of a painted saint.

“Such words are not necessary, my shining star. Fate has guided you to me. Then, now… and perhaps again. To what end? One cannot know. For now, allow yourself simply to enjoy the sublime feeling. This is no time for apology.”

But I didn’t apologise, a voice in your head protested. Did he really understand you that well?

Sensing a subtle shift in the atmosphere, your mood threatening to circle inwards, you found yourself suddenly clutched. The great fingers turned to hold you from chest to thigh, rippling like the waving legs of a millipede as they closed against your flesh. You felt an ache in your ribs where they held firm, remembering the crushing gravity sorceries that had squeezed you so cruelly at the ruins. But these creatures don't mean to hurt me. Just to feel. To hold. Even the finger inside of you ceased its thrusting motion, curling gently within to ensure you were held from the inside – just as you were on the outside. In its movement, it brushed against you in the most enticing way. You chased the feeling, angling your hips in the hopes it would touch that sweet spot once more. Just once… Just once and then I’ll be grateful for what I get…

Ymir shifted himself in response, causing the finger to withdraw obediently. A small whine escaped under your breath as you mourned its loss, needy and desperate. “I know, my dear… You have been so patient. I know you must long for release.” He paused to look at you with a benevolence not unclouded with self-assurance. “Worry not, I shall assist…”

Fingertip probing ever-so-gently, you breathed a little ah! of surprise as he breached you. The slenderness of his hands made it easy, slipping in as many fingers as your body was willing to accept. You whined, trembling around him. At once he was beckoning, long fingers curling upward like the curve of his thin lip as he observed your undoing. His fingers were talented, swirling against the sensitive spots within as you writhed against his chest. Panting, you gasped, thanking him again before you could think to stop the words leaving your mouth.

The Count breathed a laugh, an unusual sound that you’d never heard before in such a genuine form. Inside you, his fingers worked magic unlike any other, thrusting in slow dreamy motions that made you buck against his hand to chase them. “Ahhn… Ymir…” You mumbled, leaning to press your face into his shoulder. Breathing in shallow gasps, his comforting scent filled your lungs as you urged him wordlessly for more, more.

Surely, his field of study was much closer than the stars…

Your eyes rolled back, and he murmured quietly against your ear. “Do you see it now? That starless night?” His tone was earnest and clear, a cloudless ink-black sky. Where others might have muttered some platitude, he chose his words carefully. To communicate, for him, was to exist. His sketches, the maps, the way he tended the flowers in the graveyard. Even the way his hands – his many, many hands – caressed your flesh, drawing moans from your throat that echoed up to the timbers and made the flames leap high in their lanterns.

As you approached your peak, his fingers ascended you to the ceiling – beyond – through to the constellations above. “That’s it, that’s it…” He murmured encouragement, keeping his strokes consistent as you groaned and sighed a tortured litany into the crook of his neck. His free hand rubbed whorls across your back as his offspring’s fingerprints pressed in steady rhythm along your sides. All at once, you were tipped over that dizzying edge, contracting hard around his fingers as you threw your head back in ecstasy.

Gazing up into the blackness of the rafters, you felt his fingers curl inside of you to rub against that spot again, insistent, demanding. Once more, my child. In an instant you came again, tears brimming as you cried out, clutching at Ymir, hands tangling in the fabric of his hat, his robes, his fingers. The universe unfolded in this room, then gathered back in on itself once more. Gradually, your breathing began to return to normal, hands interweaved with the ones in his lap. Clasped together, as if in prayer. Slowing the rhythm of his wrist until he was sure you had finished, he gently removed his hand, cleansing it with a wordless sorcery. Reaching again for your face, he was silent.

Turning your head, he placed a firm chaste kiss to your lips. Too stunned to reciprocate and still burning like a comet through your comedown, you merely blinked in response. Lingering stardust fizzed behind your eyes. Your mouth hung slightly open, dazed. He brought a thumb to your lower lip, brushing away the slight wetness there.

Content in the afterglow, safe in his arms, you felt exhaustion catch up to you with full force. You couldn’t remain awake any longer, not with all the will you could possibly muster. Looking to Ymir’s face, as though searching for permission, your eyelids began to close of their own accord. The allure of darkness was so sweet… The lanterns swayed above, constellations that moved and sizzled in the draughty hall. Fate, changing once more? In his comforting embrace, you finally allowed yourself to fall into the waiting slumber that had chased you obstinately for days. The last thing you felt was the delicate touch of a steady hand, stroking along the side of your face as you slipped into unconsciousness.

With the help of the fingers, he held you securely to his chest like a toddler. He rose from his chair, fabric falling behind him like the wake of the ocean. Sights set on the Site of Grace in the entrance archway, he walked with purpose until you were level with its incandescent glow. Bending, he relinquished you, as gentle as a mother with her precious newborn. You stirred, ever so slightly, as the radiance danced before your eyelids. Somewhere in your dream world, it was daylight.

“Sleep soundly, my child. Revel in your blessed sleep, cast adrift. When you wash ashore once more, you shall know what to do.” He tucked the third and final map drawing in your unfurled fingers, gently closing them into a fist. Looking towards the graveyard, he sighed, the weight of it all upon him once more. The fingers tucked close to his chest, seeking comfort.

He looked again at your slumbering face, serene and untroubled. He looked at the bruises, the cuts now knitting themselves closed in the aura of Grace. We endure what we must, for what must become. Suddenly, he was distant, forcibly detached. Something twinkled in his gaze – cold like the stars overhead, long dead. When he spoke, it was with finality.

“May you be ready… for all that has come to be, and that which is yet to unfold. May the gleaming stars guide you, evermore.”