Raven reaches out one hand to catch it, the sound of glass meeting clay hidden beneath the desperate sound of Blodwen's screams.
Your hands had the weight of hands in the water
He weighs it in his hand for a moment, black eyes wide and dark.
in the sea caves, a light carefree weight
"No. I rather think this is yours, yet."
with that movement we make sometimes when we dismiss a black thought
With a casual flick of his wrist he tosses it back at her, low.
wedged between man and the memory of man,
The harsh, brittle sound of glass breaking stands out in the silence where Raven's laughter had been.
between the wound and the hand which was wounded by a black lance.