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“I didn’t think you would come,” says he, and neither did she who did come but struggles to breathe from dread of staying, from terror— won’t it sacrifice all the strength she has or will ever have, to see the Legate’s slip away?
She covers his hand with hers, recalling how he first held and graced it with the treasure he couldn’t give his daughter.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, imagining the last time she couldn’t hold her father’s.
Yet it’s no sacrifice: all his strength slips not away, but into her heart.
“Shhh,” he breathes. “No need, Nerys. You’re here.”