Verin's fingers are wet when they brush Essek's face. Water drips down his cheek, down his chin as their lips part, almost like tears. He imagines so, at least. Essek hasn't cried in a very long time.

There is the ugly possessive urge to drag his brother's head back and kiss him again--he could have lost him today, the only person in the world who matters, who is his--but the angle really is poor. He returns to Verin's hair instead, the scratch of his fingers through it methodical but gentle, practiced. He's done this more times than he can count.

They're quiet for a time. Essek washes the blood from his brother's pale hair, using a wide-toothed comb to work his own favorite shampoo through it. The silky black slip he's wearing becomes entirely soaked. At last, he gives a quiet instruction: "Rinse it out, please."