( They're brought to shore like dregs and rags, torn on the shoreline's strip, the rustle of ice shards stark and tinny, when the weight of their bodies, thrown, crushes pieces beneath. Powdered snow sticks to his wet lips, his fingertips, lingered heat of his flesh prolific to attract it.

In his belly, a yet young, strong core thrums awake like purring, prioritising the routing of his energies to keep him lively, strong. No such mercy for Clara, a wretch of shivering besides him. He turns, unambiguously slow, limbs folded half beneath his body, failing to latch on ground and tether, to purchase —

Then wet strip of parchment is threadbare, nearly fighting for transparency in the slate, sullen day's wintered sun — distantly, he remembers to lend it power, waking the heating talisman and slipping it tenderly onto Clara's back. It cannot bubble or miraculously dispel her chills, but will bide her time, warmed. )

When selfless. Perhaps she warns for her own purpose. ( Softly, then: ) She wished the waters or flowers untouched.