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The echoes of her weeping somehow lie within the folds of his cloak – a faint, but constant chorus of tears that plays around him as his cloak moves in the wind. The contrast between the simple contentment she seems to feel in his arms and the song of her sadness – sadnesses? – that sounds around his body strikes a deep chord within him. Very well, he decides, if holding her means the wearing of her sorrow, that is what I shall do.
“Come,” he says, brushing his lips lightly against the top of her head, “let us sit together a while.” Releasing his right hand from her embrace, he raises it to his mouth. He breathes lightly upon his outstretched fingers and presses them gently against her lips. “Sealed with a breath,” he whispers. “There will be time enough for words tomorrow.”
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