"Nor I." She sighs. "The Song is muted, as it should not be, and perhaps my son might have been able to reach past whatever blocks us, but I cannot."

She smiles at him.

"Thank you - as little as I like it, I fear I am no warrior, although I am not defenceless."

The obsidian knife her husband gave her she has still, and in her hands it sings still, the flame of her husband's love and will to protect her warm against her hand, but even that song is quieter than it should be.