"There is plenty to apologize for," he returns, that statement sounding almost like a correction in its insistent tone. His teeth grind together as he grunts, shuddering -- not in personal irritation at how quick he was to retort, but from a sharp ache right at his middle; it draws his hand to it, his fingers pressing into the fabric atop the stain on his tabard, trying to quiet the pain from the scars beneath his layers.

The moment passes after seconds, but it feels as though it lasts far longer when she's there, when he can feel her attention and worry upon him.

"But there is not much point in such things at the moment, I suppose," he continues. "I merely did not want you to be cross with me for... anything, really."