It was little surprise that body and soul both were in need of recovery. Whilst the brambles and their watching blooms were gone, Mikka's body was still warped from the touch of so much Light, too pale, too many arms, gold streaks marking where brambles had wound around before. But they were gone, as were the eyes. The mask worn still, though cracked at some point during the struggle.

And while he still looked the part, the searing cold of the Light had left him, the cheek under Emet's palm warm to the touch. The feel of it earned a low, ragged noise of exhaustion as the pale face turned in against his fingers as if seeking comfort.