You’re not used to this. You’re not sure that you [i]should[/i] be used to this. This warmth, this opportunity to be vulnerable. You are a stone standing alone. The responsible thing to do is to step aside before you get a taste for being comforted and yielding your strength, or at least that’s what you keep telling yourself, isn’t it? But the words are sluggish and cold, your pride still numbed by the touch of whatever lies beyond the grave, and you are not strong enough to stop yourself from nuzzling closer.

“How dare he?” The words escape you before you can stop them. Your mouth is too hot. “When will he be satisfied? When will he relent?” Unasked: will he? When will Uther Pendragon step back, sated by whatever he is looking for?

And what will you do if he cannot be sated?

“...thank you,” you add. You half-heartedly gesture at the graves, but you mean more than that. But you still know better than to elaborate. To dangle hope in front of Robena. Hope for some unspeakable, unthinkable wonder. That you might be willing to stay. Because you will not. Not forever. You cannot let yourself rest in this warmth, this strength, these fingers on your head. There is too much that you must do, [i]alone,[/i] to become... not alone.