#sobs.....

He falls into sleep, encouraged by soft, gentle murmurs. His minor injuries are not what troubles Ilriane. It is seeing himself reflected in the beast's eyes, even glazed in death. What was he but a mirror of the horror it had inflicted on command?

He sleeps, but it is far from restful. He is as misshapen as it had been, as the elvhen he had helped reshape had been, were. It is fitting, he thinks, moreso than the body he is in waking.

But he is not alone.

Felassan's form, too, wavers, shimmers, a sheet of water falling over him. And what's left as that, too, dissipates is beautiful. Felassan could never be anything else. He does not touch Ilriane, but curls around himself, one eye resting above a taloned paw fixed upon him.

Felassan is beautiful, and here, and looking upon Ilriane unflinching. That does not change what he is, but it does allow him, too, to rest. Legs of a hart fold, other mismatched limbs tucked to his side, and the storm of his turmoil stills.

He is monstrous, but he is not alone.