[ Exactly like a wounded animal, she thinks. Like a dog kicked more times than petted. She watches with tears, and with worry just for a moment crowding out her own sorrows: how he succumbs to her touch. How he seems to allow something like peace to ease through him, as though this is something he once had. A remembered kindness from long ago.

And of course, it would follow that he panics, if that kindness heralded only pain. It doesn't surprise her at all to see him recoil - but oh, how sad she feels for him.

How sorry she is for what life he must have known. And - as ever, as always - for the life he knows now.

And she starts to speak, to shush him or soothe him, and reach for him again, but his own words fill the silence and rend her heart.

Doesn't she know that wanting-not-wanting? Hasn't she, for months, for years, jerked away from even the most innocent touch? Any hand on her own, any brush against her cheek, until -

Well, no one touches her now. She reaches out, she offers a hand or a caress, a pat on the arm, but they've all learned now that the current flows only one way. And she can understand his softening, and the bite that follows, and - that plea.

That horrible plea.

Be careful with me, isn't that what he means?

She doesn't bother to brush away the wetness on her cheeks. Poor her. Poor him. ]

How much you've sacrificed for the sake of a stranger. Of course I'll take care with you. How could I live with myself, if I ever wounded you?

[ There, a plea of her own: understand, won't you? Believe me. Just believe, even without trust.

She keeps her hand near his cheek - near enough that he could, if he relented, if he wanted, lean into her touch. But no longer forcing him. Let him decide now. ]

No, no - oh, dear one. I swear on my soul, even if I am a heartless creature: I will never do you harm.