“Death isn't a punishment,” Gwenaëlle says, absently, “it's abdication.”

The casualness of the assessment is probably the most striking thing about it; that she didn't think about it, that it was something she has already thought about before enough to just have that nocked, ready to loose at the appropriate moment, that she doesn't give it much more immediate thought after saying so. Like it should be self-evident, somehow. Death can be a consequence or a release from them, but she thinks of punishment as hand in glove with discipline, thinks it should be. If there's no lesson, if it just ends, what was the point?

To stop him from destroying another universe? Or to stop him feeling bad about having done it in the one he had to live in?

Neither of which feel like ... lessons, to her. No one else even learned anything from it, with a plaque to say what a hero he was.

It is a very particular outlook, and one he may not share; she doesn't dwell on it, herself, but refocuses from where her gaze had wandered to smile at the gesture, the cloak.

“I would like the tour.”