Compassion? He doesn't know how easily the word slides off of her, finery that rough and stained hands should never touch. Locked away in her heart - oh kindness, so much kindness that she cannot bear it - and this is how she straddles the line between accepting things she knows she doesn't deserve and denying it to their face. It would only sadden the others, to know. It would never meet with their approval, but she doesn't want to ruin their sentiment.

Reflexively, her hand comes up to the charm she still wears, toying with it instead of sinking her nails into the back of her other hand. Something to occupy herself with instead of thinking too closely at how this too is a form of pain.

(She keeps herself alive. Fed, healthy. She keeps herself clothed, housed, mentally occupied. This is enough care. This is enough to adhere to the promises she made. They said nothing about her keeping herself in check.)

And...he says no. And she has to accept that, as one takes a slap in the face without flinching, without batting an eye. Without letting a strange and bruised disappointment slip into her tone.

"I see. If that's your true wish, then I'll adhere to it."

Gods damn it all. Why couldn't she have said something more intelligent. She really could just strike herself or someone else, throw the whole force of her body into it so that it would leave marks. At least she's keeping her voice measured, hopes she's keeping everything from her expression.

"Can you at least promise you'll say goodbye, if you make the choice to die?"