He moves and is moved as she shifts, is grateful as she settles his head against her shoulder and the curve of her neck, and closes his eyes as her fingers card into his hair. There is only darkness there for the moment and he is grateful for that too.

He should not tolerate this, shouldn't allow it to pass--Thor has already accused him of weakness, of failure, and Alexandrie is fond of him at his best. He is a poor facsimile of that now, curled into her with his arms wrapped around her like a child with a stuffed toy. She has no penchant for magic, nor knowledge of magical skill, but even she knows that he failed. Utterly and completely. In all ways.

His heart will not slow down and it is all he can do to crush his eyes closed and keep the painful tightness behind them in place. He broke down once, wept before Gwenaelle and swore her to secrecy, but she has already left him and moved along. Alexandrie has not, but he expects she shall. He is not graceful in his sorrow.

"I can't--" He chokes and, despite his efforts, the first of his ears begin and slide, hot, down the sides of his face.