Erian held in his hands the dry branches he had left to soak the night before. The earthy smell of the material mixed with the fresh air that drifted through the temple corridors.
He had found in basket weaving a way to keep his hands busy and his mind calm. Every fold, every weave reminded him that he could still create something useful, even if small.
Seirion was near, he knew it by the subtle brush of his shadow in the air and by the serenity he always seemed to bring with him. He made no unnecessary noise, but his mere presence was enough for Erian to know he was not alone.
As Erian tried to fix a stubborn end of the basket, he heard the god's deep voice drift to him, clear and soft:
"Careful, my heart… if you force the branch too much, you could cut your fingers."
Erian froze. The material crackled in his hands, forgotten for an instant. Those two words pierced his chest.
My heart.
"What…?" Erian stammered, barely turning his face toward where he thought Seirion was.
