"I-I saw her," Azalea panted, "she was trapped in ice and y-you were standing there, b-but you were in a trance like state." Peter raced back to the bed and knelt by her, "Shh-shush, it's alright, you're okay." Small whimpers escaped from her pink lips and she sputtered before jolting awake with pure alarm. Azalea tossed and turned in the bed, her face twisted with sudden discomfort. His blue eyes scanned the horizon with creased brow and clenched jaw. Peter still found himself restless and slipped from the bed, walking off to their shared balcony. She snuggled into his chest and after some time fell asleep. "Shh," he hushed the girl, "Try to get some sleep." "I don’t blame you for being unable to have children," Peter assured her, "I just want to make sure you know that." He wore a loose tunic and her hand slipped easily underneath, rubbing the raised lines. Her own hand was on his side, just where the scars reached his hip. His hand traveled from her cheek to her barren shoulder and his rough thumb glided across her smooth skin. Peter couldn’t bring himself to believe her, never had she been sick and the sudden illness was unsettling. "Of course," answered her frail and satiny voice answered with falsity. "Are you well?" his deep and silky voice wondered. A large hand went to her face and brushed back a few rouge strands.
She turned back toward him and stared with dulled blue eyes, even her hair seemed less alive than usual and he grew uneasy. Azalea shifted restlessly in bed with Peter's arms and he peered over at the sickly pale teen.
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