If only he could summon the very sun to warm her, to drink in its power and let it spill out of him onto her, into her, sunshine to light her way through the dark. Here, on the side of the road, the whole of the earth between him and the sun, he did not feel powerful. The fates had decide he wouldn't be the one to find her, had laid things out that when they were finally reunited, it was in the middle of the night. Tomorrow, tomorrow would be better for this.
He wasn't going to wait until tomorrow. Whatever it was going to do to him, he couldn't wait, not with Erato's delicate skull cupped gently between his large hands, his thumbs over her cheekbones, her empty eye sockets centered in the space between his thumbs and his forefingers. "You'll see my face again," he promised her, summoning every last scrap of power he still had access to, and channeling it all into optic nerves and blood vessels, humors both vitreous and aqueous, iris and pupil, cornea and retina, right down to the last millimeter of immaculate macula.
There was some bitter irony, he considered, unamused, in that the details vital in the regrowing of an eye were still fresh in his memory. A very Melpomene style gift to her sister, there. He'd been so close to killing her for that act, and now, because he'd done this so recently, it was that very act that made regrowing Erato's eyes come a little easier.