[Yuan's hands are still empty, marking the patterns with a ghost of a sword, but the sound of Kratos behind him, steadier bit by bit, is a small reassurance.]

[Nostalgia strikes him again, if only with a feather's blow.]

[The space between his shoulderblades itches, more with instinct than an actual sense, and when the pattern has them turned Yuan flicks his gaze up just to confirm his suspicions. Yes; there are children. He doesn't draw Kratos's attention to it, only glances away again and resumes the pattern.]

[It's slow, but steady, and Yuan is loath to say or do anything to break what little balance they've found.]