Blackfeather Woods thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead are driven

And then she's there, right in front of him, all gold-shining and bitter blue eyes. He feels a fierce swell of protectiveness, all at once, and steps closer. His posture relaxes into something more intimate, brotherly, voice dropping. It's — I don't know how to say this, He admits, letting his guard drop just a little for her, if only for the sake of the fragile connection they've started to form. I don't even know how to deal with it myself — I had so much hatred before and now... He swallows, urging himself to get to the point. Alessia is dead. I found her. Sick. She died right in front of me. He stops himself there, afraid to go on, afraid that his lack of emotion will show too much and Electra will think him a monster. He wants to be there for her properly, the way a brother should be, but he isn't normal — his own threads are colorless, and the possibility of Electra being put off by this is distressing.