[Lids flutter lightly at the caress – too gentle for him, he thinks - though his eyes remain closed and his tongue still for a long moment, mind intently focused on how the shell of his body responds. Nerve stir and waken and he lives, in the flesh at least. But it’s more than a simple touch between his wings. It acknowledges his presence in the world; it reminds him that he exists to someone in some meaningful way, or so he wants to believe. When he would one day vanish and drift off into death, would his absence give someone pause if for only a moment while the world kept turning indifferently? Would someone feel his absence like a missing limb, achingly aware of what had once sat here, living and breathing, laughing and smiling hollowly, seething with endless rage?

The sting of feeling forgotten is all too raw, still.]

…‘tis death so many dread and curse. [He muses lowly, more to himself than to be heard.] Above all, the thought of writhing long in the throes of a great and unimaginable agony. The destruction of the flesh... a painful end...

[A soft huff of a laugh follows, the thought left unfinished.]