Wake up, little sheep. The moon is gone. The dream is past. Wake, to the lingering memory of her blood.

He is up first, as usual. She is still sleeping. She could not sleep. Her eyes drink in the clouded light like she is dying of thirst. They dart past the shade in the shape of her husband. Her mouth opens. Screams that are not screams, only chunks of feeling breaking off from a raging storm. It would be better if she were silent. It would be better if she screamed.

But she’s alive. 

His hand gropes blindly across his armor, and closes around a tuft of wool, nearly torn off in the fight. He pulls. Stillness, amidst a sickening pop as something in his shoulder gives way first. He pulls. Without leverage. Without tools. Without any sign that is close, or far, or hopeless. He pulls. The last thread snaps and he falls across her chest, clutching his prize. Not done yet. Not yet.

Arm over arm. Breath by breath. He crawls across her. Finds, in a sea of blood and ruin, one cut. Narrow. A centimeter deep. To this, he presses the wool, and in place of strength he lays his weight upon it. 

It’s okay. It’s [i]okay,[/i] Vas. He’s here. He’s still here. Even when you couldn’t see him, he never left your side.

Even now, when he lies between a goddess and her prize.