There was no point in trying to comfort her, Ishiah was fairly certain. Not because he did not want to— he only ever wanted the best for Lucy, showing a level of affection for the young woman that most peri never worked up to for humans— but instead because there was a feeling in his gut which told him that there was nothing to say which could make the situation better, that the only solution was to find a way out of the dream for them both. He assumed this, because now and again he caught the slight movement of tightly-wound chestnut-colored curls in the distance, and still the occasional flash of fiery red, both clear enough in his memory that he knew. He knew that out there on the field lay a person that he'd failed, and one that he was terrified to lose, more than anything else in the world. Being told that they weren't real, or that he shouldn't have been bothered, wouldn't have worked— Ishiah was trying it as they spoke.

Lucy was well-minded enough. If Ishiah couldn't brush either out of his thoughts, he doubted that she would quite be able to either, not when the two of them had met in the first place shortly after her brother left the island. So instead, his hands simply tightened on Lucy's shoulder, gripping it firmly.

"I remember..." he muttered, hustling the both of them away. He remembered sand dunes, he remembered a pair of bright green eyes, he remembered the heights of Manhattan, the crashing of salty waves against his calves. Slowly, he filtered through thousands of years of memories, heightened as some of them now were thanks to their surroundings. Unable to come up with a response, he instead stared at her clothing. "You're dressed strangely. Why are you dressed so?"