This is far for a supplicant to have come. She does not deny him that. Simply shakes her head, a mother chiding a son, and tells him that there is nothing more to be asked of his hands. That they could only fight so hard from inside a plastic prison. That yes, it will not be much longer now, but no, child, there is no shame in that.
At least that vaunted end will stick this time. He will not have to go back. She wonders, for him more than perhaps any, is this not relief? Why run from, let alone take up arms in spite of, the chance to sleep, free at long last from a nightmare old and overwrought?
He runs his fingers over the edges of the CARD, CREASED WITH NECESSITY, and thinks that as rare as victory was, the heuristic cartographer always did find treasure in his poverty, cherished loss like a lover, learned from her scars.
He thumbs the engraving on the DOGTAGS, LUSTROUS WITH BURDEN, and remembers a saviour shattered, who would have gladly rested if it did not mean the world would share her fate, who gambled her hope so that others might not die in vain.
But what figures most of all in his answer is the touch of the FAVOUR, RED WITH COVENANT, now fled from his features and into a witch’s hands, by a mournful scion freely given, and he settles on something far harder to describe.
He is going to tell her a story. Again, that gentle, chastising shake. We saw what happened, We all reviewed the case, and regrettably our decision is-
He stops her right there. She misunderstands.