[francel tries, weakly, to tear his hand from aymeric's grasp, but the motion itself is frail and unconvincing, and he accomplishes little. he finds his thoughts straying toward his father, towards the counts of ishgard, towards the old priests in the synod, sharp-eyed and hard-hearted. they would not be so affected by this, he thinks to himself. they would not tremble, and their hearts would not race, at the low rumble of aymeric's voice, the glint of his ice-blue eyes in the moonlight.

now is not the time to remember that he used to dream of haurchefant looking at him like this.]

...And what if others should come?

[his voice is cracked, despairing.]

Suppose other men and women that we know should arrive through the veil? Ser Estinien, mayhap? Ser Lucia? Even Lord Emmanellain? Should the whole of Ishgard wind up here, would you still aid me above all others? Or would you take up all their burdens as your own?