Six weeks. The Fool exhales a sound somewhere between a sigh and a mirthless laugh, and turns his face into Devin’s hair. Six weeks of missed time that could easily have been months, or years—or centuries. The Dreaming could have brought him back to an Aifaran that didn’t have Devin in it. In the grand scheme of things, six weeks of lost time is a blessing; it could have been much worse.

And yet—

“Are you okay?”

“I’m...” he begins, then grows quiet while a heavy well of feeling rises up within him, tightening his throat and blurring his eyes with tears. It is strange and alien to arrive here again with such pain and grief and agony and loss still fresh in his mind—and to have a year’s worth of catharsis descend upon him, all in the same moment. It makes him laugh again, weakly, and draw back enough to blot at his eyes with his sleeves. “I have no idea,” he admits, looking up to meet Devin’s eyes. “The past has its claws in me again, but seeing your face is a balm for my spirit.” Gently, he reaches up to stroke his fingers across Devin’s cheek. “I’m so sorry I left you alone.”