Stavanger Bay I know what they say, I know that they say that no one dies from love

they remained fractured, the little family beside the sea. at times, lestan joined his wife and daughter adjacently; he kept the caches stocked with seafood buried in cool sand, or brought polished stones and glittering shells up for the girl. a sand dollar, large as his paw, turned up also in the place where his mate slept.
once — twice — lestan caught himself consumed by the urge to turn toward reverie in the night, to seek her warmth and reassure her in the wordless dance of love that had always lit them both to flame.
but while the thought had done much to light his mind with want and his heart with fervency, his body continued its silent rebellion, not an ember but ashen remnants swept from a fireplace.
it was too shameful then, to know he would only be a disappointment in this as well. a true husband brought satisfaction and contentment to his wife. lestan had brought neither for a long time.
and today, his attentions were turned out to sea, toward the island where the four children had been taken. the things he had said! the coldness in his spirit! lestan hated himself for the willingness of killing which had come upon him, and blamed the fever, the french cat, when all the while such livid seeds were his birthright.
reverie brought hope. the mayfair tore his eyes from the shoreline. "that's good," he said with quiet encouragement, needing the love in her gaze. "what, uhum, did bridget say? will you be going to her now?" to blossom he looked now, and nodded, a small wan smile playing over his mouth. "yes. maybe one of the beaches. or inland a little." but firstly, this healer. "i-i'm glad you found someone, reverie. glad you w-want to keep seeing her."