It’s like a jagged wound, a sliver of glass buried in his chest. Even if this was all years ago, ages past, a younger version of Gwenaëlle who no longer exists and who no longer does these things — they are sitting together, he is holding her hand — it still hurts to hear. His heart cracks in half. He can’t find the words. What are you even supposed to say.

He hates this part of caring for someone.

Other puzzle pieces are clicking into place. Even down to her perpetually making herself useful around Riftwatch, picking up every little skill. The weapons, the training, the archery, the detailed journals, re-inventorying the infirmary, practicing a tidy suture, annotating his medical texts. It’s been better, easier. As if I’d just been standing in the wrong place, before.

Like a weapon sitting on the shelf, simply waiting for the day it could be used, and could find purpose.

And if they were reaching for my throat then fine.

“You say you don’t blame anyone, but— you can’t blame yourself either, Gwenaëlle. You can’t take responsibility for others’ behaviour. Even if you tried to provoke it, to make them angry or jealous— at the end of the day, it was still their choice what they chose to do with that reaction.”

A breath, in, out. Raw and ragged: “I’m sorry that you felt like you had to do that. I hate that you felt like you had to do that.”