He won't impede the feathers. Aaron doesn't take his hands away, but he will pick them up and put them back, stroking along the feathers, not against them, brushing tears away. He murmurs to Julien the entire time, like you would to a child: shhh, be still, I'm here, breathe. There are snatches of song in it: healing hymns in the high tongue, a dialect Julien won't know. The impressions he gets are of trees made of light and starlight on a great sea. There's something in there about a heaven-queen, too.

No one here will rush Julien to open his eyes. Let him take it at his own pace. He may never be entirely ready, but far be it from Aaron to hurry him. There is time. He will stay bent over Julien, all but cradling his head, for as long as it takes.