He could vanish into clouds and light, untethered—
A hand rested over his. He had a hand, then: it could be touched.
The swirl of magic that was Lorre felt the touch with some surprise, and came back, curious.
The presence beside him shone like polished wood, like bronze and gold, like the treasure of fresh-baked bread and much-adored books and a well-gathered harvest. It was made of steady hearthlight and an inability to whistle on-key, plus a bright quirk of love for stories about heroes and other worlds, and the sort of determined compassion that’d reach out to be an anchor for a magician lost mid-spell.
Gareth was real. The touch was real. Lorre had never felt anything so real as that.
He opened both eyes. He’d lost his rain-shield at some point, and the sky dripped like a weary p
