Antimony's hand wrapped around his own, and he tightened his fingers about hers while he let her pull him forward. Her skin maintained the warmth of the spell she had cast, as though it were alive. His instinct was to press his fingertips into the crook of her thumb, seeking a pulse, but he resisted that and maintained his fantasy. Perhaps he would kiss her hand before it cooled. But, then, was it unfair to her, to prefer the feel of her when she was alive? He might well as make her wear gloves so that his lips did not feel bone, or wear fake ears so that she appeared more elven, if he was going to prefer her as something other than what she was.
No, he would never kiss her skin while it was warm. The lukewarm and the chill were as much a part of her now as the brilliance of her mind and the stubbornness with which she continued drawing him towards the Overgrowth. He would take her as she was, with her cold skin and her tenacity, with the everything that swelled within her and the insistence that it was nothing.
When Dhein stepped away from the center of the room, the leftover tendrils of Fel magic clung to his feet, sticking to them like tar and pulling him back to the center of the tent, in opposition to Antimony, like an alcohol pulls a drunkard into bottles. But next to Antimony's touch on his hand, the Fel magic was a feather tied to his ankles. It snapped free from teh ground and clung to his heals as he walked, staying with him, light and warm.
There was a glow to his eyes and a smile on his lips. His ears bounced as his dirtied hair hung heavy down his back, his chest was heavy with thoughts of Antimony, and the weight of Fel contamination renewed itself in his fingernails and unrealized thoughts.