The croissant hits the floor. The crutch follows after.

He needs both his hands free.

Wool born for nobility, the stuff of the finest, softest blankets in all the palace, bundles up Bella in a hug. A squishing hug, for one so padded. A firm hug, for one so short. Even before he had to kneel on his good leg.

Cry all you wish; that which dried the eyes of a princess stands ready for your tears. Say as little as you like; he will say enough. “Well done. [i]Well[/i] done.” He finds a little more strength, to squeeze, to help hold together this space she'd made. “I knew we’d find you.”