The man entered her small cottage and sat on a worn rug on the floor. The woman could see the weight he carried in his posture—his shoulders slumped, his eyes avoiding hers. His energy was anxious, dark, and confused. He tried to speak, lifting his brow, but she placed a finger to her lips. The quiet slowly filled the room, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace.

The healer rose from her seated position and took several steps toward him. His body stiffened and he froze, practically looking at her with a mix of disgust, hate, anguish, love and fear. She kneeled next to him and began rubbing his shoulders. Her slender fingers were strong, kneading the knots and working their way down his arms. She never once broke her gaze from his eyes.

His brow furrowed, and his palms began to sweat. Tears formed in his eyes. His heart started to beat faster. He wanted to push the healer away, strike her, love her, fuck her, but he continued to sit. Her hands moved to his chest, and she began to push her energy into his heart, eyes closing, murmuring a chant in an ancient, long-dead language. The man lay down on the rug in the fetal position, tears streaming down his face as he began to weep heavy deep healing sobs. Her hands stroking his skin, gently brushing his hair.

He cried for what felt like an eternity, the deep hold on his heart lifting. The agony of his loneliness, the rift between himself and the divine, once estranged, reunited and grasped one another tightly, rejoicing in their reunion. As the burden began to lift and the tears slowed, the healer reached down to him, inviting him back.