Oh, dearheart. Matt felt her pain, more than she would ever know, and when she asked in that hoarse pleading voice for him to take her away, if Conlan was watching, he saw the blow strike home in the flinching of his eyes. Matthew made it a habit never to show his vulnerabilities, but this little slip of a girl was practically his daughter, as close to him as blood. That she suffered - that he could do nothing to protect her from that suffering, or even ameliorate it once it had occurred - was the worst kind of torture that the Maker could inflict on Matthew's blackened soul.
He dipped his head, pressed a fatherly kiss to her temple, his voice even only because Lalin needed it to be; she needed him to be strong, to be an invincible shield to hide her from the world, and he would be that person for as long as it was necessary. Matthew, of course, forwent the easy way - instead he dipped his shoulder and picked Lalin up in a princess-carry, just as he used to do when she was a little girl. She was so light in his arms, as if Faer's death had already half-wasted her away - Matt's face was hollow-eyed and grim as he carried his little girl to the keep, to give her over to the custody of her heartsister, praying with all his might that she could do something to ease Lalin's pain.
Later, he would go and pray in the chapel for Lalin's sake, even though he knew the elf wouldn't appreciate the gesture; after that, he'd hit the bar for far more rounds than he ought to drink. If he was lucky, Lillie would pry him away to come to bed, but sometimes, a man just needed to filter all the emotions through the bottom of a glass mug.