Moonsong Glacier worship

Sorry for the wait!

Knew, knows. His heart tightened with grief.

Yes. I want to stay, he said, voice barely above a whisper. The coldness of it all spread up his veins to his throat, constricting the fine muscles. The tears did not come; his tense face did not break.

He hated himself for many things but his newest crime was simply resorting to tired methods of cruelty and pettiness. To talk about mom, Dove - to simply mention her! - it seemed like a taunt, something as base as kicking a fallen man in the side.

So he was the one to step forward first, breaking the interminable distance between them, his narrow head the sharp hull of an icebreaker.

He would lean against Bartholomew's shoulder, if he didn't move away.