He had never thought he was going to die in the field at Ghislain. Indeed, he was more occupied with the thoughts of her death, before necessity had made him stow them away so that he might focus. Still, he did have an image of her that came to mind most often when the errant thought of the Fade reclaiming the essence of what he was, and it was her as he saw her in the evenings: sitting in their bed, reading, relaxed, undone.

She was beautiful then, in the pretty Orlesian nightgowns or a shirt she’d stolen like the magpie she was, but he was one to appreciate extra effort, special occasions, visual appeal—

“Is it a good book?” he says, in Orlesian, closing the door and locking it, and coming to her side of the bed, where he moves to take it once she’s marked her place. “On your back. Let me appreciate your hard work, wife.”

Love in every stitch, and all that.