He really had tried. But trying's not enough, sometimes. It's a lesson he keeps having to learn.

When Kell shifts closer, Rhy gives in and presses his face to his shoulder. Beneath the surface dust and soot, the lingering smell of blood on both of them, is something familiar and soothing; Rhy breathes it in, shaky and slow. Without looking, he reaches a hand between them, groping for Kell's fingers, squeezing when he finds them.

"I keep thinking about the Black Night," he admits in a mumble against Kell's sleeve.

"How many people died..."

A pang of shame follows almost immediately. It feels selfish to bring it up, now of all times. As if any sense of atonement he can't help but desire has any relevance here, when all he should be focusing on is helping those he can because he can.

Every time he tries to tell himself he'd never do something so rash and irresponsible and cruel as Ellya, the doubt tugs at him, evidence in the murky memories of that night, the long lists of dead and missing compiled after. He wonders if anyone is keeping track of the poor souls in Nott, already largely left to languish by the crown.