He stepped into the study and looked at the shattered walls, the broken remains of SaDiablo Hall, and shivered. It was cold here, lifeless, as though something vital had been sucked out of the land. Something that it needed like he needed air. And here in the study, the remains of tattered books on the floor, that sense was stronger.
A man, kneeling, breaths heaving his chest up and down, golden eyes glazed with terrible rage.
Golden eyes blinked, the vividity of the – memory? Vision? Startling him. He took a step towards the remains of the blackwood desk, something tickling at the edge of his memory. And shivered as the cold swept over him, and then, just as abruptly as his black-nailed hand brushed the wood, the warmth.
The man, ripping the room to shreds, roaring the kind of rage that had no words, the rage of a man searching for killing field and robbed of one.
But stronger –
The sense of arms around him. The deep, sonorous voice reading him a story. The brush of lips across his forehead, the sense that here, once, he'd been safe, protected, warm, loved. A low, fond laugh and a soft whisper.
And then gone, and all that was left was the lingering rage and the cold, cold feeling of stones that knew their loss, stones that remembered.