It takes him time. Forgive him, Assassin, but he needs time. Would that manners permitted him a piece of her scrap paper and a pencil! It is much, much harder envisioning all this, while watching her, while watching his heartbeat, while watching his posture, while tracking the seconds it’s been since she stopped speaking. Time. Give him time!

“That…that [i]would[/i] work. As far as I can understand it, anyway.” It still leaves her - that is, the her talking with him right now, not the her in the coffin, nor the her whose head will grow a new her, oh dear, this was complicated - tied to a body whose bones bear a curse. But she was calm now. They were talking now. And they could work with that. For now. 

His hand trembles.

“Please, you have no need to beg.” He continues to watch her, all of her. In the periphery, his own arm extends bit by bit, mechanically clicking through the motions. Each jerk closer winds his chest tighter. A great, invisible vise crushes in his shoulders. When he touches her hand, her fingers will close around his. She is going to bring her hand up, and down, some polite number of times. Her grip will not tighten. Her claws will not lengthen. His skin will not be pierced. His body will not be thrown. He does not need to watch for these. He does not need to watch for these. He does not need to watch for these. “I will walk with you; I want you to live, too.”

It doesn’t feel good to say it. It’s certainly his fault.