Moonspear you ain't got no time,

She sensed his emotion, and felt it with him. His admission shocked her, truly. Rannoch, gentle and sweet and soft like Lyra—he had her fire. They were perfect for one another. This only strengthened her conviction with other matters but, more than that, caused her own affinity toward him to grow.

Perhaps he was strong enough for them.

She stepped toward him, ears erect as her nose sought his cheek. It was half to comfort him, half to comfort herself—most of what she did was for utterly selfish reasons. In a moment that betrayed that she, herself, was not always the strongest, she revealed her softness to him as she sought to be nearer for an instant. There was nothing romantic about it—she simply needed the strength of his presence, of someone who would understand, who did understand, what it would be to see them gone by the teeth of their most hated adversary.

We will kill them together, she rumbled near his shoulder, should he have decided to comfort her for a moment.