Moonsong Glacier a dream within a dream

He lags on his approach as much from experience as from some misplaced sentimentality, because he knows that particular red shape, even if it has grown and shifted in a way he cannot identify. When she turns and sees him, when she slows, Glaukos feels the whiplash of her stare because he knows it — he knows her.

Avicus. The man drawls in his husky way, almost on cue with her own hiss.
The movement of her body draws his eye, although it is only a moment before he's watching her with more care; there is the deeply-rooted memory of the many lessons she had taught him as a boy. He is no longer a punching bag for her to lord over. He is no longer weak-willed, no longer mindless with his anger or his violence — but he could not be certain of her.

So he is wary, watchful — yearning, but he doesn't know what for.