Blackfeather Woods hush, my baby; baby, don't you cry

The ghost had been adrift —

He did not know for how long, or why, anymore.

He had forgotten to be afraid of sleep. Craved it now, but couldn't settle enough. Fits and starts, mostly; fleeting handfuls of moments that pass too quickly, fade too sharply.

Peryite, my lord, he heard someone calling beyond the trees; or maybe the trees held a voice of their own, and called to the daedra of their own volition. He drifts. He sees.

Titmouse has managed on an hour of sleep, if that, for quite a few weeks now. It shows in the red-rim of his eyes, the dragging of his steps. It feels like he's been hollowed-out. He spends so many moments watching and waiting for time to pass and night to fall, then as the night blooms he struggles—

Help her-- the trees pray.

Slowly Titmouse drifts closer, pausing where the trees form a gap. He leans his pale figure against them and they tremble to his weight but that is all; it is nothing, like a breath of wind betwixt them. He thinks he's watching himself at the altar but he hears something clearly—sharp, familiar—a thank you.

Some clarity restores itself to his one-eye. Maegi...? He murmurs, his first word in days.