For a long while after he surrendered to the dark, Linda did not move.
She did not move because moving would have meant disturbing the one creature in any of the worlds who could unmake any logic before breakfast, and she had decided—quietly, ferociously—that no force short of the heat death of reality itself was going to interrupt her boy while he pretended to be small again.
So, she stayed perfectly still.
Her hand kept moving through his hair in the slow, ritual rhythm only mothers and ancient gods are allowed to know, never lifting, never faltering, never letting the pattern shift enough for him to surface and remember he was supposed to be invincible.
Her other palm rested on the heavy line of his shoulder, shaping itself to him like it had never forgotten the blueprint.
Her thighs cradled the impossible weight of his head. Her belly—soft, mortal, gloriously ordinary—held the temple of the man who wore divinity like a tailored insult.
