"It would have been better if you could have worked on it together."

Without knowing his father, she cannot say if he could have worked such a miracle - but she will not crush his belief, even as she feels that it was a situation where he was not set up to win. Too little time. Too overwhelming a foe. And yet, and yet. He would try, shedding his own blood if he must.

(And what it makes her feel, to think about fathers and legacy and duty - it is hers to keep, burying it under the snowfall.)

Her thumb strokes the back of his hand in hers, not so much as flinching at the increase in pressure. If he has to crush her hand to allow himself to feel, then so be it.

"...You are not the only person to come here in the shadow of a mountain of corpses."

The admission is quiet, but there is a weight in every word - not the voice of a goddess, but someone too terribly mortal.