Ithacles raised a hand to halt her apology, and almost offered his own. But she seemed so dedicated to the idea of explainign herself that he dropped his hand and listened. And in his state of mudled exhaustion, she actually made sense. He had been looking at the mountains for most of the day himself after all.
"Quite alright," he said. His voice was tired but he still managed to sound lucid. "Here."
He offered the woman his hand. She hesitated for a moment but he met her eyeline directly in an effort to assure her that he was not angry at all. For some reason, no matter what he did and who spoke of it, commoners always seemed to fear him. As if he was a Prince from some children's story who would fly into a rage at the mere sight of someone whose blood was not royal.
She took his hand and he hauled her up with the care he'd have given a dance partner. And once the woman was standing, he stooped once more and collected her jacket. He flattened it out, brushing the lapels with the back of his hand.
"You have very smooth hands for a..." He inspected her buttons and crest. "Sergeant."