[ There is a sense of him seeking physical comfort, in the place where he has come to rest himself; the lethargic twist of his limbs and the sharp press of his mind in Communion with hers all the more poignant when he takes in the weight of her voice within him. The way she says his name -- it doesn't go unnoticed. ]

You know, I had thought to elude you both for at least a little while longer. I wanted to speak to the others and glean the breadth of their choice before making mine.

[ If it must be one of them who reaches him, he's honestly relieved that it is Yima. Were it Cyrus, he might have been a little more wicked, a little more wrathful. She feels good, calming. Like he imagines Nut must have felt, once. His own mother and he had never been terribly close. ]

How are you, Yima? [ He says her own name, enunciating it in the curling, ancient tone of his own divine tongue. ] It must be hard, doing all this.