Oh, Constance, how your fingers find their place. They are pale like white stone, like the forgotten statues in Bath. Under your fingertips, Cerwen's palm is wet with fear. It is your turn to be strong; you lean over Cerwen, your murmurs as meaningless and gentle as the song of the river as it dances over the rocks in the spring sun. Look, you intimate, look: your blood lives yet. From the same root you came, and you have not been cleft yet, not yet, not yet. This you know, this you can do; you touch her as if she were Palug, you calm that hot blood, you are strong [i]because[/i] she is weak, because she needs a hero, and you are no knight, Constance, no skill at arms you can claim, but you are kind. That is strength.

[Constance rolls a [b]8[/b] and warmth, faith, returns to Cerwen. You may take it as you will.]