Now, here was that Ronan in the waking world, looking both young and old. On one hand, a young man with a tattoo still new enough to be angry, a pugnacious set to his shoulders, a defiant way of planting his boots on the wood floor. On the other hand, there was something ancient in his eyes. He no longer looked torn between. He was both at once; there was no dissonance. I am one of those things, he had said. She believed him.
