[There he is! The most beloved son. Niall recognizes him by all the yelling and sets aside his work to hop down off the bed. Muiread stirs and jerks against her ropes, attempting to follow him, but Niall leaves her behind as he ambles over to where Ronan's engaged himself in grief-soaked dramatics. As one does.]
This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights...
[When he gets close, he doesn't stop, but circles around Ronan in examination, searching for anything other than emotion which might be wounding him. Still reciting:]
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calm'd — see here it is...
[Satisfied that Ronan's alright, he halts directly in front of his son and offers his hand.]
no subject
You cut your hair.