I wonder if it was now at 09:24 or later when the pulsing stopped. I don’t know the time but I know she cradled his heavy head in her arms. Arms I didn’t know back then, back then when I wasn’t alive. But I came to know her arms and we linked them, mine with hers, in the biting bluster of the moors. 

And his heavy head in the chilled March light nestled in her warmth, a warmth he could rely on. And if she’d not laid there in the chaos, in the blood, then I wouldnt be here now, not in this form at least, and I wouldnt be watching the March sunlight, weak, but promising, fall across my bedding, urging me to get up, to be more.