[He can't help but stare--eyes searching, committing everything he can to memory--despite not recalling the lines encroaching around his father's eyes from laughter and squinting across the vast meadows outside Ferndale, or the curve of his mother's mouth when she smiled, or how Hamigant's hair constantly refused to lie neat, he knows this is right.
It's truly them. Somehow. If they're specters pulled from his deepest memories or actual spirits, he doesn't know.
He jolts when Aymeric's hand curls around his, but he can't look away, fearing they'll disappear if he does, or worse, that the fire will burn them away again. He does grip, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to reassure himself and Aymeric both that he's actually here and not lost in his head.
(His parents--they looks scarcely older than he is, if at all, Fury.)]
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It's truly them. Somehow. If they're specters pulled from his deepest memories or actual spirits, he doesn't know.
He jolts when Aymeric's hand curls around his, but he can't look away, fearing they'll disappear if he does, or worse, that the fire will burn them away again. He does grip, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to reassure himself and Aymeric both that he's actually here and not lost in his head.
(His parents--they looks scarcely older than he is, if at all, Fury.)]