raadelma:

Exhaustion hit her like a wave. She yanked back from the brink of sleep, suddenly frightened. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t—I could not bear it again.”   

“He will not come back,” returned Morozko. His voice was steady against her ear. She felt the years in him, and the strength. “All will be well.”  

 “Don’t go,” she whispered. 

Something crossed his face that she could not read. “I will not,” he said. And then it did not matter. Sleep was a great dark wave, and it washed over her and through her. 

“Sleep is cousin to death, Vasya,” he murmured over her head. “And both are mine.”
The Bear and The Nightingale