He feels Howard wake up. It's a subtle thing (the shifting of his breath, the slight tightening of muscles in his legs and abdomen) but Aunamee knows the signs well. After all, how many people has he held in his arms while they struggled for consciousness, winning or losing, dying or living? This is second nature. This is a dance he has performed countless times before.

With telepathy, unconsciousness ebbing into consciousness feels like syrup thinning into water. Without telepathy, he can feel shadows of that familiar sensation, although he knows it is only a memory, a lie projected by his horrible, weak human mind.

He tightens his grip on the knife. He runs his fingers down the cold, exposed blade.

Forty, fifty minutes pass. The Cornucopia is far away now, blocked by the trees, and Aunamee's legs are growing tired. He crouches down, lowering Howard to the point where he can rest his feet on the ground and stand up, if he so wishes. This is how he tells Howard that he knows he's awake.