He was suffering more from her words and anger than any blow she'd dealt him. The last thing he'd ever wanted was to make her miserable. And she'd have hated hiding in the moors. Mae was a city girl, and she'd be bored to death with no one around and nothing to do.
No, there was something worse than this. And that was not having her. He'd rather die on this godforsaken ship with her than lose her to that bullshit lie of a revolution he'd bought into for so long.
Cath gritted his teeth as she kept poking at that point that this had been all his idea and his fault. <"Dammit, Mae!"> he countered, his hands tightening into fists. <"I can't accept it! Put yourself in my bloody place. I almost lost you. It's not worth it!"> He swallowed hard, turning away a minute.
God, he'd never get the sight of her, bloody and pale, barely clinging to life from his mind. For so long, he was afraid he'd lost her. There were times when she slipped out of consciousness and he was afraid she was gone. Somehow, she'd pulled through.
It was a bloody miracle. A message from above about how he shouldn't be wasting what they had on a lie, no matter how noble their intentions were.
Cath turned back to see her fold up, looking very much like the scared little girl she really was. That hurt worse than her accusations and fists. <"Sweetheart,"> he murmured, crouching down next to her. <"We're not useless. Nobody's going to care what we've done soon. No one's even questioned why I know what I know and they all still think I'm just a bloody librarian."> Denial was a wonderful tool at times.