[ She says nothing about it, as he leans against her, gently moving her fingers back and forth with a quiet him to help fill that emptiness that grief left behind. Her eyes lowered as she watched carefully. His pain. His agony. If only she could take it, but that was always the if, if she could carry it all, perhaps things would be better.

But she can't.

She can only hope to guide against something less immediately destructive. She does not raise her voice or grow angry, what good would that do? Even if he is set to scorn her. No, her hand settles against the outside of his arm, if only to get him to look at her. ]

Because, warrior, what would you strike at? The mist? Perhaps the stone walls? Or a puppet upon a stage, shown in shadow and light? Would you fight flames? You have no plan. [ Soft, soft, soft, and yet, she feels her mother's guidance in the directness of it. ] None of us do. We cannot, we have no knowledge of this place. I have no doubt of your courage and your strength. But there is nothing, yet, to fight. We have no understanding of what it is they desire from us. You will only hurt yourself, wear yourself out, and leave us broken so that if there is an enemy, we are twice as defenceless against it.