[ Anduin's grip doesn't falter as he feels that ripple pass through her and into him. He is a priest, after all, and spirits are no unknown thing to him. Bright and beautiful and terrifying as that presence within her is, he doesn't flinch for a moment.
Her pain is his, and for all that his heart aches for her that familiar ache grounds him too. Loss is something he knows intimately, knowing loss longer than he's known any single person in his life.
But Gilia isn't broken in the same ways. Those wounds still weep, and it's all he can do to provide that anchor to her when she is so terribly adrift, as she once did for him. He hears the rush of waves, the echo of something primal, and presses back against it like a hand against a pane of glass.
Only a man. One who loves her, and shares her pain. No more, no less. ]
[ Long that silence stretches, long that silence stares. Loud that silence beats into a place between worlds, between life. Whether it is Gilia's heart or another could not be said, it is her voice, it is a thousand other voices, and it is always, always, that silence. Where she, herself, begins to almost dissolve in his arms in that strange another form, ephemerally slip to the place where even his hands did not touch, if he held a little tighter, it threatened, he would plunge straight through that shallow depth of woman to dark waters.
That finds the correctness in that response and settles, and at last - the rattling of the water, where the sink overruns, and pools water to the floor in a thin sheen, the aching groans of the internal pipework of the house rushing with such force, the bubbling over stove - all settle. All silence themselves.
Until there is nothing left, but those quiet sobs she takes on his shoulder, sagging exhausted into him. ]
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Her pain is his, and for all that his heart aches for her that familiar ache grounds him too. Loss is something he knows intimately, knowing loss longer than he's known any single person in his life.
But Gilia isn't broken in the same ways. Those wounds still weep, and it's all he can do to provide that anchor to her when she is so terribly adrift, as she once did for him. He hears the rush of waves, the echo of something primal, and presses back against it like a hand against a pane of glass.
Only a man. One who loves her, and shares her pain. No more, no less. ]
no subject
That finds the correctness in that response and settles, and at last - the rattling of the water, where the sink overruns, and pools water to the floor in a thin sheen, the aching groans of the internal pipework of the house rushing with such force, the bubbling over stove - all settle. All silence themselves.
Until there is nothing left, but those quiet sobs she takes on his shoulder, sagging exhausted into him. ]