Raven lets her go easily enough, hands falling away from her wrists as she flings herself backward.
It remains motionless. It gazes at my hours. What does it remember?
His power, though, is much more difficult to unwind, tangled as it is through the Dark, through her. Tangled up and searching, looking for the joints, for the seams.
There are many wounds inside those invisible people, inside it,
Hunting down the cracks.
humble desires cleaved upon the ground,
Even as the Dark blankets him, a smothering weight of fury and power, he tilts his head back, laughing and spinning aside, riding the assault.
children slaughtered and women exhausted at dawn
And still his power weaves through hers ever more tightly, following the pathways she has made--pathways born of blood and long familiarity.
Who knows if it lies heavy anywhere at all?