One day, to wrap an arm around her like this may come to feel natural, even normal. That will be its own sort of miracle, though for now, each instance of closeness is a pearl unlooked-for, shocking and surprising in its beauty.

"On the contrary," He says, hoping to warm some measure of the chill out of her limbs, by dint of his body-heat alone. Were he whole, he could offer better, but for now— it would have to do, "I am more grateful for your presence than you can know. Were I alone, I would—"

What would he do, exactly? Struggle? Fight back feebly, pointlessly? Descend into meaningless violence, petty schemes, or simply... panic? This world was wound and balm both in one hand. It was the steadying weight of her, pressed against his side, that kept him from weeping with the emptiness of it. In the end, he says nothing, and knows, or hopes, she will understand.

"...It is better than the Fallow Mire. On that, we can agree."