*drops a kiss on your forehead and returns your embrace, but his worry does not abate*
*hesitantly, as though he doesn't quite believe you but he will humor you because you cannot know the horrors he's seen (and he will not have you know them)* Perhaps...perhaps you're right. *sighs* I am confused, at times. But Amarië. So many have died and I am flighty and insecure—do not protest, my sweet little one. I know I am spoiled and soft. *shudders violently and squeezes his eyes shut against the memories* And I can only think that their deaths must be my fault.
*and then, disjointedly:* Where are we? I don't rightly know.