Alcuin loved few things more than he loved the written word and the eloquence of language on his tongue, but there were simply no words for the desolation of loss, written or otherwise. More than once he had found himself curled round the pale glow of his journal at night, his back turned to his sleeping master and his fingertips frozen above the letters that he hoped, over and over again, would release him from his hurt. And over and over again, he would eventually fall asleep to the sound of his master snoring softly into his pillow – and the sight of an empty white screen. Likewise, there were no words for things like comfort or compassion, either. They were defined by action, and it seemed the fae was nothing if not a man of action.
“Yes,” Alcuin breathed, turning his head to delicately nose the fae's temple in acknowledgment, scenting briefly the smell of clean skin and sweet smelling shampoo. His words shuddered with unquantifiable relief and reassurance: “You understand.”
While he could imagine the upheaval one might experience at the thought of their minds being an open book (the oily shopkeeper came to mind), the only secrets he kept were of little consequence to the fae and as such his mind was as acute as it had ever been. “You've no need to apologize. We cannot change what we are – and I've certainly no intention of trying any time soon,” he smiled sweetly and hummed in contemplation. “I had given some thought to fetching lunch for my master before I returned home, but I think it is too early yet for him to be hungry. I would be delighted to have your company til then.”