The most difficult part of falling asleep beside a strange, Asbel decided, was dealing with the invasive presence of their very breath. The phoenix, alone at night since shortly after hatching, had kept company in the evenings with summer breezes and the occasional fall of rain. The rustling breath of another person beside him was almost too loud, too unfamiliar to fall asleep to.

Exhaustion had stolen him into sleep long enough, but Frey's midnight panic woke Asbel in an instant, and the phoenix froze, dizzy with a similar alarm. Were they in danger? He lay stiff and silent in the near-darkness, lit again, but with his back to Frey, Asbel could not (and would not turn to) see what harried the prince. A nightmare -- that was all. If the brat had a bad dream tonight, so be it: after his attitude, the young man deserved nothing else.

Asbel closed his eyes to force himself to sleep again when arms coiled around his waist -- and every nerve in his body lanced alarm through his body. He did not flare, did not burn, but did not dare to breathe, either. Frey was still asleep, apparently, and what was presumably his face was pressed against Asbel's bare shoulder and left dampness there: tears in the dark.

"Your Highness," he whispered, half-hoping Frey would wake up, half-hoping he would stay asleep. The phoenix squirmed, trying to dislodge the arms around his waist and steady his own racing pulse. "Your Highness, let go. You are in no danger."