Mozrael woke slowly, the way someone might surface from deep water. Warmth pressed against her cheek, and the faint, rhythmic motion of a hand stroking her hair pulled her the rest of the way into consciousness.
Her eyes opened to the dim, flickering orange of firelight. She was lying with her head in Aramith's lap. His hand moved through her hair in slow, absent motions, but the lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed his worry.
"…Moz?" His voice was soft but taut.
She blinked, the blanket of night tilting faintly in her vision. "Aramith…?" She didn't remember the last time he called her that.
Relief loosened something in his face, but his hand didn't stop moving. "You're awake. Good."
Her brow furrowed as she pushed herself up slightly, then winced and pressed a palm to her temple. "I… What happened to me?"
"You don't remember?"
