The tempo of his footfalls echoes as a living, beating heart within her ears, the young woman sensing the approach of her companion, feeling him long before his shadow darkens the threshold of the dimly-lit space. Before now this sensation had always coaxed a peculiar, nearly-sensuous reaction from the redheaded woman, his approach more often than not igniting the most titillating chill that would ripple a sensorial avenue throughout the entirety of her body. But this... this was something wholly separate, the glimmering point of a compass needle teetering upon the precipice of pain moreso than it could ever have been associated with pleasure. She had pled and pined for the return of her lover every day since his departure, she had scoured Sacrosanct and its outlying posts for any shard of evidence that might indicate where and why he had found it favorable to simply disappear.

A furrow draws its ripples into the silken pallor of her brow as he commences offering up his explanation, the simple mention of his departure being to her benefit in any fashion is an initially preposterous idea. Isolt moves to speak then, to tell him of the presumed contradiction, but the words that then tumble from his lips see her pause. It is... not as she had expected, though in truth she would never have been able to voice what she had been expecting. A studious, intent hush falls upon her as Damon regals her with the tale of his incarceration at the hands of this New Eden clutch. It is very nearly a tale from the Grimm volumes, so very outlandish it was. Made all the more outlandish by the modesty inherent in everything that comprised the redhead of whom he spoke; Isolt had never and would never believe that she was the individual of whom this prophecy told. She was, truly and simply, only Isolt. Whatever measure of importance she held mattered so very little outside of these four walls, and certainly far less beyond the boundaries of Sacrosanct that it seemed quite impossible that such an ancient, powerful society might have set their proverbial sights on her.

Despite the outrageousness of his tale, however, it is this last proclamation to leave his lips that sees Isolt move her eyes to meet his once more. "And what do you think I signed up for, Damon?" It is a comment delivered in more terse a tone than she had perhaps intended, the realization of it causing the young vampire to surrender a single, crimson tear to draw its stark rivet against the pallor of her cheek. "I want to protect you too, I need to know that you're okay and when you left... I thought that something terrible had happened. I looked everywhere, everywhere to find you, for months I looked. I thought that maybe Hunters had taken you. But then... when I couldn't find anything, not even a trace of you, I thought maybe you didn't want to be found. I thought maybe you didn't want me anymore." The melodious song of her voice shatters then, for that thought was the one that had haunted her most gruesomely during the long months of his absence. The corrosive and merciless hand of time had planted this venomous seedling into the fertile loam of the youthful vampire's mind, preying upon her own internalized insecurities.

Before the realization of her actions dawns upon her, Isolt finds herself drawing nearer to her lost beloved, some deeply-seated requirement for his presence transcending the tension, the sorrow. Still she fears to touch him, for she knows that she will not be able to stop touching him. If she allows herself to kiss him, she will never find the strength to let him go. But, as with so many other things, Isolt finds that she has not the strength to keep her fingers from reaching out to caress his arm, the supple bulb of her thumb gliding gently over the raised scar. "Neither you nor I can keep them from coming if they're so intent on it. So let them come, Damon. Let them come if that's what they want. But please, please, don't go looking for them again. If something happened to you, it would kill me."