"He'll be gone soon," Gwenaëlle says, wetly, to Morrigan's shoulder; it's another few moments before she can muster the composure required to let go and to straighten, but when she does her eyes are only a little brighter than usual and the glimmer of a wet smudge on her cheek will dry quick. "Soon. It's - all goodbyes, now."

It's both easier and harder than it was, with Annegret; easier because she isn't the only pair of hands, the only sore heart. Harder because she isn't the only pair of hands, the only sore heart - she wraps her hands around her own elbows, tight, holds so still it must be deliberate. She might rock herself, if she didn't. Everything she doesn't know how to say is a fist around her throat and she just -

"Thank you." For coming. That and only that, on its own, is more than she'd think even to ask for, much less expect to get; not that she wouldn't want, but she knows so well the back of people. The ease with which she sometimes feels forgotten. Solitude of habit, not preference - hesitating to ask for what she couldn't bear to hear no to. Hesitating to ask when no would be better, still, than only silence. Then- "I've. We've. Been helping a little, for the healers. I know a little. Nothing magic."

Obviously. She flexes her hand, though, remembers; now doesn't feel like the time to go into it, but Morrigan will hear, and soon.