Blinking away the tears blurring his eyes, Sonam gradually regained his senses and lowered his outstretched arm. The muscles and tendons contracted, burning nerves and sinew as he brought his hand to his chest. It felt as though he hadn’t moved his body in ages when he knew it could not have been but mere seconds since he reached out for the weeping woman who’d called herself Nyima. But, she was far from his grasp, left behind in the wake of an awful world - whether dream or omen, he could not tell. Yet, the Nyima by his side, who stared at him with watering eyes, was close enough to reach out to.

And reach, he tried, though his limbs protested. His hand shook as he reached for her, desperately trying to keep upright despite the aches in his shoulder. Quickly, Nyima came for him in return. Her comforting, strong fingers wrapped around his colder ones, and he felt the pressure in his chest alleviated when she squeezed his hand, feeding warmth into his tired limbs. He could scarcely feel the breath within his body, as if ice crept over his veins, freezing him from the inside out.

But that concern came second to the fat tears rolling down Nyima’s cheeks.

“Nyima,” he whispered hoarsely, then stopped, momentarily stunned by how rough and throaty his voice sounded. Where has my strength gone? He thought, fingers twitching and eyes focusing when he felt something warm and wet splatter against his numbing fingertips. 

It took him a second longer to realize it was Nyima’s tears and how she caressed his slackened hand to her cheek. “You’re awake,” she whispered, sagging against the bed’s wooden frame with only her elbows to keep her from dropping to the floor. Sonam would have cursed himself aloud if he were able, but speaking her name exhausted his dry and aching throat, making it difficult to swallow - let alone summon words of comfort. Unable to bear watching her weep, he tried to assess his surroundings, at least to know what realm he was in now. 

Floor-length, open cabinets carved out of ridgewood and strong cedar lined the north and western walls. Their shelves were ladened with notched scrolls and books with string-bound or bark-inscribed binds. Wine jars inscribed with a scrawling hand were scattered between bushels of herbs, and potted plants outgrowing their vessels hung from the rafters on iron hooks, one such plant spilling pale heart flowers onto the heavy blanket covering Sonam from neck to toe. He sighed softly at the sight of the delicate blooms, recalling their swaying in the windiest days of spring. 

In a place such as this, they would only be helpful as medicine, not decoration, he thought, returning his gaze to Nyima. “Is this Aunt Tsolha’s clinic?” He asked, watching as she dragged the heel of her hand across her eyes to dry them.

“It is,” she choked out, and another tremble through his arm set Sonam’s teeth on edge how he wanted to hug her and brush the tears away from her cheeks, apologizing for everything that was done and everything he may do if he indeed was as helpless as he seemed in the future. 

“D-Don’t cr—” He started, choking when her hand lowered from her eyes, and from beneath the shadow of her bangs, fierce golden suns bore into him. 

“Who are you to tell me not to cry?!” She snapped, squeezing her hand so tightly that it felt as if the blood was straining against his skin. What relief he might have had at retaining some sensation in his hands bellied beneath his frantic heartbeat as she loomed over him, “You were nearly turned, you… idiot! If Tsering didn’t find you when he did…”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and the righteous fury in her eyes drained into sorrow. Sonam could only imagine what images flashed before her as she stared at and through him. Her hold on his fingers tightened, then loosened apologetically as if remembering his state. Sonam’s face softened, torn with grief as he tried to curl his fingers, managing to brush the roughened pads against the inner curve of her thumb. 

“Sorry…”

He repeated the motion as best he could, whispering again as if his breath could blow away the drizzle of tears dampening her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Nyima sniffled, the rounded tip of her nose turning red as she gently tucked his hand beneath the blanket and hastily got to her feet. “What use is apologizing if you only do it again?” She asked, scrubbing her forearm across her eyes. As her hand fell to her side, she looked to the doorway and muttered aloud,  “I have to tell Lady Tsolha you’ve awakened…” and as Sonam opened his mouth to ask her a question, her head whipped around, and she pinned him with a silencing glare, “Do not even think about getting out of this bed.”

Her stern gaze lingered on him, sweeping from head to foot. Disbelief soothed the harshness in her eyes, but he hadn’t a moment to linger upon it before she was gone, briskly rushing out the door. It quickly opened and snapped shut, leaving Sonam with the echo of sound that promptly evaporated into nothing. His head sank back against his pillow, and he turned his eyes to the ceiling again, watching motes of dust twist and dance around the cross hatches.

I’m home.

The thought might have sprung fresh tears to his eyes if they didn’t ache terribly with how much he’d cried already. Wishing to relieve his burdens, he let his eyes fall shut and pictured the woman he’d seen kneeling on the Thunder Keep. A sky burial could only be witnessed by one’s family members, which explained why the two warriors were sent away. But the only one to be there with him at the bitter end was Nyima — wearing the sash he intended to make for her once their betrothal contract was duly signed, and she was sure to want a life at his side. How, then, did he only cause her so much grief that she would come to regret it?

Sonam opened his eyes somewhat, looking at the cold sunlight shining through the window. The sky was fittingly dark, filled with hanging clouds undoubtedly swelled to the brim with rain. What he could see of the garden surrounding his aunt’s office was oddly barren; trees, usually fit to bursting with verdant green, were bare. It would pour soon, and Sonam could almost feel the forming ice crystals. Snow would descend on the mountain peaks soon enough, the first snow of the season, which was odd considering that it should have been nearing fall - when the trees would begin changing and the wind would chill. Yet, the heart blossoms had already bloomed and fell. Weren't they only just budding the last time he’d left his bedroom?

How long have I been asleep?

The door creaked open, and Sonam shut his eyes when he felt someone’s steady gaze on the back of his head. He didn’t think he would recover if Nyima continued her onslaught, but as the quietness ticked on, he wondered why she suddenly chose to be quiet. Perhaps she presumed him moving his head constituted moving in general? Although, he couldn’t remember her being so petty. 

That was before you were injured, a soft voice in the back of his mind reminded him, and Sonam grimaced. Gathering as much face as he possibly could, he hurriedly turned his head with as much care to his bruised throat as he could muster, “I didn’t move—” The words died abruptly on his lips as he stared at the person standing in the doorway.

“… Mother?”

Though the woman before him was not very tall, her presence filled the doorway with its enormity, an air of calm passing over Sonam with a gentle brush - slowing his racing heart. The veil she wore atop her head pulled back lustrous dark hair from a heart-shaped face serene as a statue of Lhenma. Just like the Goddess' effigies housed upon every altar in Jutai, her skin was a deep shade of mahogany that emanated a cold, silver glow as if she were carved by moonbeams and traces of their light were left in her very flesh. Just looking at her reminded him of the moment his feet touched the Far Shore, and he stared at the magnificent sprawling heavens. Every soul in the sky, twinkling like stars, brought back the memory of his mother’s eyes - tipped at their corners like a lunar phoenix’s wings, ever bright.

As she took a step, a bell rang, and Sonam’s breath caught as he looked up at her head. A crown of backward-curving horns adorned with argent cuffs near their tips arched beautifully from the wreath of basalt scales beneath her bangs. Her bare feet hardly made a sound when she crossed the room to his side, kneeling as he tried to gather strength to push himself up. 

“Mother, I—” 

A scaled, claw-tipped hand touched his shoulder, lightly and effortlessly pushing him to lie down. His sore muscles thanked her, and as soon as she resettled the blankets around his shoulders, her palm cupped his cheek, tipping his head up.

The tips of her pointed ears flicked as she tipped her head, hair sliding back over sloping shoulders as she glanced over his chest, slitted pupils dilating then contracting until they were nearly lost against her irises.

“How are you feeling?” She asked with a tone he could not place but could find no way to hide against either. 

“I don’t know,” he answered, seeing the flicker in her pupils and the pleasantness smooth her expression at his honesty. “Confused, lost…” Her eyebrows furrowed then, and he shut his mouth, hesitant to continue. His words only seemed to bring pain recently. But his mother tapped a finger against his cheek, urging him to continue with a barely-there nod.

“.. I heard you call for me,” he whispered, and his breath hitched, not expecting the way his mother’s eyes became glassy as her pupils grew large, reflecting his image in their mirror-like surface. “I-I returned, Mother…”

Her hand caressed his cheek, enveloping him as her fingers slid into his hair, tangling and stroking. Claws dragging lightly against his scalp, heel pressing to his chin to tip his head up. “Then, so too were my prayers answered..” She leaned over him, her words a whispered breath against his skin, “My sweet boy..” 

She kissed his forehead, then wrapped him in her arms, holding her to him as best she could without disturbing his rest.

“Welcome home.”

He closed his eyes in her embrace, feeling something dampening the top of his head as the first drops of rain plinked against the window sill, eventually giving way to a steady downpour.