Stavanger Bay It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero

there was no longer any ability in lestan to rest. their first night here had been fitful, full of wakings and mutterings.
numbly he held reverie, reaching for the love he knew lived beneath the surface of the cold place; it warmed him, warmed them. but as she walked in waking visions, murmuring, lestan looked away from her.
the doe had appeared twice to him now; the blood dripping from her throat haunted the back of his eyes until he could hardly shut them without shuddering.
her cries tore at him, and for the first time in wakefulness he saw the cat with her curling accent, smirking at him from across the plateau.
his arms shuddered around reverie, who had returned to herself, speaking his name as she often did, and he remained silent, his eyes fixed staring upon the place where the feline had been — where she had disappeared.
the concept of speech for the moment had fled him, and at long last he looked down into her face, jaws working but no words emerging.
lestan left off his attempts then, shutting his gaze fully and holding reverie against his heartbeat as he often did, willing for the sound to soothe her.