and I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
He hesitates upon the soot-flecked doorstep to the Temple: his pale hand ghosts against the massive doors, fingertips questing for details, for texture, but it all seems so muted after the vibrant senses of the dragon.All around is death and destruction.
It mirrors his heart.
Slowly, Aamu pulls the doors open and slips inside. It hides the mess from sight, but he knows it's still out there. Within, the Temple is better off, the stone having spared it from much of the fire. Filthy footprints track this way and that but Aamu pays them no heed, knowing where he is going already. After all the work they put into cleaning up the clinic, and the joy it brought her, he hopes it's mostly untouched by the destruction.
He looks as he feels: disheveled, messy, streaks of soot and grime on his fingers, face, in his white hair. There's a strange sheen to his eyes, an oil-slick shimmer at their corners, because let it be known: Aamu cannot look at the destruction of those who came before him and not feel anything.
"Isla?" he calls hesitantly into the clinic once he's pried one of the doors open, peering into it with trepidation.
Aamu
