It's difficult not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the moment and his life in general; not particularly wanting to get that tea smacked into his face, he tamps the impulse down ruthlessly and wonders what Sephrenia would make of all this, now. (She would like Adelaide, of that he's certain. He is less sure what she'd make of him.)

He curls both hands around the mug, the medallion falling against his chest as he sits a little straighter. Doesn't wipe his eyes, but begins the process of quietly and methodically packing away all that he'd spilled out on the ground before her; he can't leave this tent as much of a mess as he's become. (He would prefer no one ever see him like this - but at least, not ever again.) What he grieves is something he can't touch, there's nothing to be done with it, no useful purpose to it, and he doesn't expect - has not expected, since he began speaking - to be comforted. It goes away, where it belongs, and

He drinks his tea.