[Curled up as tightly as he can, night mummified in a blanket, Alcuin is crying too hard to breathe in more than short, rasping gasps. He's seated, rocking, in the center of a daybed in a cozy room full of sewing materials and academic texts. A twenty-something young man shaking apart at the seams is clearly not part of the room's aesthetic.]

Armin?

[Lost and afraid, Alcuin clutches at his head as if somehow that will make him reach Armin's mind, and then he rubs his eyes, opens them, and leaps backward into the bedframe and the wall with an almighty clatter and a strangled yelp. He stares at Armin, clutching the metal bedframe and hyperventillating.]