Alcuin never yearned for some trace of his beloved's guiding hand more than when the fear and anger of his past bubbled to the surface. He never intended for anyone to see even the slightest glimpse of the dark currents that swirled just beneath the calm surface of his face, which he had been trained from boyhood to maintain as immobile and smooth as a still lake. Anafiel had always stressed that it was as much for his own safety as it was for those around him, and it was easy to see the consequence of his slip in the startled expression on his master's face. It felt like missing a step on a long and winding staircase, the kind of breathless mistake that either left one chuckling at one's own foolishness, or twisted up on the landing.
“He lives...” Alcuin whispered after a beat, bowing his head to hide his face behind the curtain of his hair. There was a mournful pause in which he shut his eyes and breathed deeply, forcibly dispelling the swell of emotions in his heart before he continued: “Though I suspect he will not be grateful of that fact after what they have done to him," he turned his head to glimpse the cellphone on the counter. "I received a medical report and a photograph not too long ago detailing the scope of his injuries...”