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“They might take you at any moment,” Irene says, her hand gripping his, her body hovering over his in their bed as though she might take an arrow for him, a knife in the back, any blow from above that would come, “and how would I bear it?”
“I have never met a woman more able to bear anything, my love,” Gen says, and believes it, just as strongly as he believes he will not fall, not today, not tomorrow, not while he still has her to serve, to protect.
“A thing can be both strong and brittle, Gen,” his wife says, and he closes his eyes against her truth, burying himself in her so he doesn’t have to think of the love of the gods, so ironclad, so poorly tempered.