once, in a blue moon. saffron, 92.

This is a fever dream. It simply must be.

The first person she had found was Mace, of course. Clinging to each-other in a hall between the separate rooms they had inhabited, an intimate display of shock, grief, joy. Eighteen years and it had happened again, that tempting shrill of hope that always hovered in the air coming to fruition. Settling between them as something bewildering, impossible. Patricia, gone, Andal, returned to them. And yet --

She knew it would not be easy. My god this might be the worst thing to have ever happened to any of them. But standing there in each-others embrace, hearts beating and shirts dampening with tears and hands clasped around each-other, Saffron knew it was meant to be. What they had to do. She and him, he and her, they would help Andal Searley for the rest of the days - whether he wanted it or not.

They were meant to do this. Made to do this.

They would pull the boy back from out of the monster's jaw, even if it near killed her to do so.

A stranger lies in the bed she perches on, familiar terrors trapped underneath closed eyelids. Still she strokes his hair gently, thankful for the consistent rise and fall of his chest. The miracle that it is - Andal, breathing. Alive. His skin porcelain, as seamless as the sheets that cover the rest of his now-perfect skin.

"Sweet boy," she whispers, tears welling in her eyes as she gazes at his resting face. Saffron knows damn well this might be the last time he ever looks peaceful, undisturbed. Rid of ghosts, of terrors that will haunt him for years.

"They really did a number on you, huh?"

Don't worry, her heart sings, thumb brushing a rhythmic, soothing beat against his temple. A mother's touch, she's only ever felt this kind of pull twice in her life. Quinn, Lorenzo. Dutiful, innate. Full of purpose once more. Don't worry, we'll help you.

She hopes his eyes are the same, waits patiently for them to open.

SAFFRON.