Stavanger Bay Wilted

lestan said nothing in return.
he was not angry, nor enraged, nor frustrated; he was only exhausted, a cracked amphora of oil which had spilled its contents long ago. the swimming to and fro had sundered him; the hot sun had beat down upon him, and that final scene with everett and reverie had been the last.
they were home now, and he pulled away to sit in coolness, in stillness. he expected that the saltshore pair had blossom in their care, and so he did not seek his daughter yet.
"the witch said if we did not rear them, you would die." his face contorted. "and she gave me nothing at all that said you would live either way." he spread his paws. "if this is magick of some kind, i do not know it, reverie."
the scarring of his hurt and her denial had not yet grasped him; lestan was then able to regard her with clear, cool eyes.