Had the beacon been too far away when Verin fell - like it was for so many who were left behind - then even his soul would be lost forever, consecuted or not. Verin tries not to linger on the events that didn't happen; he tries harder not to fall into the guilt of everything that did.

The gentle authority in Essek's voice when he speaks again is a comfort. He doesn't have to think, only do. He turns more toward his brother and rests against him, head on Essek's shoulder. Verin can feel the warmth of his skin through the sheer robe he wears and the familiar scent of Essek's cologne doesn't escape him. It's been so very long since he has been in this place.

Verin closes his eyes as Essek's fingers stroke into his hair, offering tenderness that Verin has not been privy to since last he was in Rosohna. Tenderness that he knows Essek does not share with most - perhaps any - others. Even here in his brother's bed it is difficult to close his mind to the sounds of chaos, pain, and fear. The hopelessness of a position lost, the desperation of those trying to survive. The scent of blood and earth and sulfur.

He takes a deeper breath to steady himself, until the only things he can smell are the mingling scents of lavender, osmanthus, jasmine, cedarwood, and white musk clinging to Essek's skin.