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He was looking at her. Not at her wound, or her hands. At her face.
"Lysander."
"Give me a moment." His voice was very low.
She waited.
He stood breathed. The breaths were not even.
"I thought —" he began, and stopped.
"I know."
"Idonea, I thought —"
"I know, Lysander."
He closed his eyes.
She crossed the nave to him. She walked, slow and uneven, across the cold stone floor until she was standing in front of him, and then she lifted her good hand and laid it against the side of his face.
He didn't move into her hand. He didn't move away from it. He let it sit there.
"I'm here." He didn't answer. "Lysander. I came back."
"I know."
"Look at me. I came back."
"I'm looking."
"You're not."
A breath. He opened his eyes.
Up close she saw what the lightning had done to his face, fine burns along the line of his jaw where the brass arm had transferred the strike, burns that would heal into nothing if attended to and into scars if not. There was dried blood at his temple.
"I lost the arm."
"I know."
"And I am no longer of the Order."
"I know that too."
"Idonea." His voice broke for the first time since she'd met him. "I don't know what I am."
She moved her hand from his face to the back of his neck and drew him down until his forehead rested against hers.
"You're mine," she said.
He didn't answer. Some tension left his shoulders. His thumb moved against the small of her back, over the youngest mark.
"Lysander."
"I heard you."
"Say something."
