[ She cards her fingers through his hair - and there is no judgement, no hatred, not even smugness, but only such an unbearable happiness that as he turns his face up, like she couldn't miss it, not for anything. Like this was hers, and for it - for it she would wage a hundred wars, a thousand battles. Flicking between his eyes, like this, mapping that expression, knowing it for what it is. ]

Sometimes you look at me, but... I wasn't sure - [ sure he cared, sure what any of this meant. It would be wrong, wrong to ask more of duty than it already took from them. He had no want or interest in being bound. Neither did she, even if that freedom took different forms for them both. Wouldn't, and couldn't ask, just had to wait to see if he would be ready to give. ] - you are my love, my Byerly. For I do love you. Most ardently. Poison branches and all.

[ Let her pour and pour it out. Until she could burn every doubt out of him. ] This isn't the death of that. Nothing will be the death of that. [ Or of her. ]