#favline

I grasp it with both hands and pull myself back, dancing pinpricks shooting up my arms as I draw close to myself.

Inch by inch, hand over hand.

It is not so much a physical effort, as it is a flex of sleeping muscles. An action not made difficult by a lack of strength, but by lack of recent practice.

Part of me knows this movement. Has always known.

Lars snorts. "Maybe I'm just the bitter older brother, but I never remember being that much of a twonk at her age."

"You're not that old Lars."

He huffs. "I feel that old." He nods over to Henry. "Your nephew is well under half her age, yet he manages to make Leila look like a toddler. How is that even possible?"

I shrug. "Different childhoods?" I offer.

"Maybe. Maybe our Dads were just too easy on her." He ponders, turning around and leaning back against the edge of the worktop.

Keldan lowers me onto the edge of the bed, taking the plate of food from me and setting it down on the side table.

Every slight movement makes my brain tip from one side of my skull to the other, the slosh dragging my laboured gaze in sullen arcs here and there, there and here, and nowhere can I seem to comprehend the mundane features of the room around me.

"You are quite fragile aren't you?"

A peculiar smile slides across her lips, and she seems close to laughing. Close, but not quite amused to the point of involuntary expression, and the humour falls back to subtly.

"Curiosity." She says, in no way attempting to hide the particular way her tongue flicks around the last syllable, nor how her smile becomes a sultry smirk.

"Alright settle down." Leila says, coming to stand beside my chair, levelling a glare at Kelda.

Something like mischief enters the woman's smile. "Did I say something to upset you?"

L is roundly sentenced to dinner washing up duty for the rest of the week.

A and I have to explain to the child why throughout breakfast, passing their questions back and forth between us as we eat. Lars for his part hasn't stopped laughing since we all entered the kitchen.

"Did I do something wrong?" They ask, midway through A's latest mouthful of scrambled eggs, leaving the response to me.

Peyton took a breath.

Ash and fear coated his tongue.

He set his shoulders, pressing the tiller down into his muscle, so his aim would remain true.

He would protect his family, no matter what.

His hair flows around him in slow lazy coils. His face is formed of sharp divisions, his skin is pale to the point of illness, while his hair is pitch. High cheekbones cut inwards towards a pointed jaw, coming to a narrow chin that stands proud beneath his tightly controlled lips. And his eyes...