Here in the land of the dead, Ronan was a king. Someone seized Ronan’s hand, firmly lacing fingers with his, and he looked down at this gesture, this claim of possession. It was a boyish hand, all knuckles and veins, and it fit perfectly against his. He heard a voice in his ear: “Numquam solus.” In the dream, he knew what it meant: Never alone. How Ronan wanted to be dead.
