Ilarion closed his eyes, resting his mind, trying to still the unquiet thunderings of unasked for thought.

After a moment his lips parted.

"You're good to me, Oleksei. Don't think that I take it for granted."

He listened to the wind and felt the loss of Taras's rough, uncultured fingers in his hair.

Lasha opened his eyes reluctantly.

His gaze was completely lucid, his manner had returned to solemn and measured restraint.

"I saw her, Taras. Clear as day, sitting on my bed in her evening gown. As clearly as you're sitting before me now."

Lasha paused, rubbing his jaw slowly as his eyes roamed the wall.

"It was real," he said, finally.

He frowned, slowly, becoming inured to the admission, now that he'd spoken it aloud.

"If you died tonight, Taras, would you come back? Are there unsaid words, unfinished business that would make you toss and turn in the grave?"