𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗

                             ·· 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙪𝙥? ··

The Foundation looks at him and the Child’s ears perk as he meets his gaze, eyes wide and curious. He smiles and coos soon after, offering the knob he’d been playing with over in case the big man wants to play.

With the garlic cloves peeled and washed, Din turns from his work to look at the Foundation instead, waiting for the tell-tale sound of bubbling water as he does.

“I don’t know what you want to know about it,” he says, arms crossing over his chest. “…my reality is… bigger than an island. Travelling was done between planets.” Right? The Razor Crest used to run, after all, even if she’d crashed on Apollo Island and then disappeared with the rest of the desert…

He shakes his head. “There’s a lot to describe.”

“No,” Stephen muses with a wry smile. “Time’s been manipulated enough.” In both their adventures, even, though Stephen may never tell the Foundation of that whole ordeal.

“Just trust that I’ll keep you anchored.”

And without a word, his trembling fingers curling inward, the heel of Stephen’s palm presses fast and firm to the centre of the Foundation’s chest.

The act of one’s astral form separating from their physical form is always difficult to comprehend the first time. The Foundation will feel cold all over before warmth blooms in his core– warmth that reminds him he’s alive and present, even if he isn’t solid– and though he’ll feel a lurch in his belly like he’s about to fly away, a firm grip will wrap around his wrist to pull him forward and anchor him.

Stephen is translucent now, but so is the Foundation. They hover a few feet over where their bodies are settled, both forms seemingly falling back, even though they’re frozen in time.

In his astral form, Stephen’s hands no longer shake, but his voice is as stern as ever. “All right, Foundation. You with me?”

The term doesn’t faze him. “If that’s what it takes.”

He does feel better about the Foundation finally sitting, though, and so doesn’t comment on that further. Instead, his wrists crossing, his hands pressing outward, and a brief whirl of golden fire flickering about his forearms, Stephen touches the ends of his right index and middle to the Foundation’s helm if only to stave away the pain in his head. The remedy isn’t instant, but the relief will come in ebbs, even if it will do nothing for the weakness.

“I know a way to buy us time for you to teach me,” he says once that’s finished, “but you might not like it.”

Not if the Foundation’s particular about how anchored his astral body is to his physical one, that is.