[Armand’s response confirms a lot, and Koby’s expression softens even more, something like recognition bright in his eyes. He sighs, sets the bucket down, already holding three or four fish – he’s been up since dawn, which maybe Armand knows, maybe he’s been watching all this time.]

I won’t leave. But I won’t get any closer. You aren’t yourself.

[Spring had brought with it the return of Koby’s extra senses – nowhere near as honed as Armand’s, months of practice, rather than years, but he’s aware enough to feel the presence that flicks through his thoughts, finds the ever-present ache for home, for the sea. The deeper thoughts, the boxed-up, painful ones – Koby nudges Armand away, points him towards more recent thoughts. A place before Saltburnt, a village of ice and snow and bloody, bloody magic. A transformation, an alteration of self, of identity, a plush pink sealskin across Koby’s shoulders, the slow slipping-away of his humanity, replaced with the embrace of cool water and a quiet, animal mind.]

I know it feels good. I know. [A sigh, a settling-in, carefully out of reach, still.] It’s okay. I’ll stay here with you if that’s what you want.