It’s a strange feeling, to be human again.
The world is so large around him and Anther feels so small in the vastness of it; his fear like the sharp pain of all the tiny little stones he can feel pressing into his legs and his back. But there is comfort in the way that Thæon is holding onto him; supporting his head and shoulders where Anther is ill-accustomed to his own skin; having shed his cloak so that it is laid across Anther’s lower half where there is nothing but blood and sweat to hide his dignity.
Around him, the sounds are sharp and piercing even without his enhanced hearing, his friends releasing the fear they had been holding in a clamour of noise, and Anther can’t help the way he presses his face into Thæon’s chest, searching for the familiar scent of caramel, wood smoke and mountain ash, beyond relieved to find that he can still detect those intricacies; muted, somewhat by his human short-comings, but still there.
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