Somehow, in everything, he never considered what she might think if he'd been made dead. There was never a time he thought it a thing, no point at which he'd stopped to consider it. He'd been avoxed, his mind had not been his own, and the put immediately into the arena. There wasn't space for such a wonder that hardly made sense.

He can't understand the worry. He can't fathom apology. He deserved this. Didn't they see? Couldn't everyone understand? This was right to be done, it was all right and meant. Why did everyone be as to apologize when it was not they who'd done anything? What all was there even to motherfucking apologize for?

But for what he's done of course. He takes each bit of what she says, and though the tone ain't accusatory, he knows it should be. Sorry, I'm sorry, he thinks, and his head bows more on the reprimand.

He can't answer either of those things. He braces for what's to come.