[ he sees her grab and sits further back, playing at domesticated, wanting, desperately, to set her at ease. but there’s relief when she says no, and his eyes close, and he slumps a little. he doesn’t have a timeline for everything yet, just vague figures, but even a half-elven child (and he needs to find out what ‘elfblooded’ means, immediately) would grow a great deal in even a year. their protection, their care—it would have been a knife to his heart to know he had failed to provide that. ]

It is [ he said ] for the best.

[ he needs a second to gather himself, to try and sort his thoughts out. he brushes his hair back from his face, does his best not to comb his fingers through and slide towards more of a yank—should have braided it, but he wasn’t expecting to be having this conversation. ]

Did I—did I say that to you? [ horrified now, or at least a little broken-hearted. ] Did I say you were not a good wife?

[ shame, then, ashamed of himself, the possibility of it—he cannot imagine a version of himself who would say such a thing to someone he had bound himself to. he nods as she continues, elbows on his knees, hands together and pressed against his mouth. ]

No, I—you have my thanks. I am—was there a body for you to bury? [ are these a dead man’s clothes. ]