The reason for the panic and the imminent assault hadn’t been him, but another guest.  She settled on one arm, comparatively tiny, a weight on one arm and on one shoulder.  Feathered wings draped his arm.

And she cried, and the cries were pitched to pull at the heartstrings and to tug at the mind.  He couldn’t step into another room or walk away to leave those cries behind to find a chance to breathe.

And he was tired, in that way that would have made it so easy to believe anything anyone told him.  He dwelt on that weight on his arm, his power illuminating every world around him, some occupied, many not.  There was no more power inside him to give.  For now, he could only wait, endure as he’d endured for four years.  He had his son and all the people he’d come to love, who’d loved him and visited him in his bubble, and that was the most significant thing.

Heavens 12.none