Bariyan's hand was heavy on his shoulder. Neither cold nor warm, not like a living body's would be. Martin had seen through flesh, though, and knew better than to be bothered by it. No more unsettling sensations under the skin, no more throbbing hurt in his veins...It was a heavy hand on his shoulder and not danger. A comfort, rather. It anchored the both of them in one time and place.

He looked up at the sound of his name, watching Bariyan regard the medal.

"You wear it," he replied. "Like we...I asked. It's like a door. For me. It let me come here, and it'll let me stay as long as you wear it."