[His guilt floods their bond and this! This is why she hates talking! It's never just on her! It's everyone who feels they should have prevented her from any hardship. So she can't hurt, or be broken or have a bad day!] I want to feed you. [Because that will help. Maybe.]
You are afraid... [She knew it before, but thought it was all about her — about her failing to be well. This makes more sense.] What happened? [She takes his hand in her own, hers comically tiny against his.]
I will love you. [She bounces up and presses a kiss to his lips.] But you do not need to say if you do not wish to. [She can guess. There's only so many things it could be. And cannibalism in survival situations was not unheard of in her world, though it must be simpler when the dead leave more than drops.]
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[Hungry as he is, that's entirely honest.]
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[He tries to stifle what he really feels - not apathy, but apprehension. Pain blossoms in his fist, his claws against his skin.]
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[Ignore how he's just balled that hand up into a fist, Northly. Ignore the blood gathering between his knuckles.]
You can't talk about it, and I don't want to talk about it, so let's not talk about it.
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