[He has not allowed himself to think much about what the loyalists left behind must have had to say about him--even before he'd known exactly what kind of destruction his escape had left in its wake. The notion of having his former peers crafting a narrative about him that he couldn't shape, of letting them run wild and being unable to defend himself, of having no control anymore of his legacy in the only place he'd ever actually been anybody, had been one of the worst things he could imagine after he left.

He knows better now. Even had the carnage of outright war not taught him better--those jagged noises from his cousin's throat are worse than anything else that could ever have come of the Hasmal uprising. It shouldn't be juxtaposed with that sweet fervent prayer for Vandelin's safety and happiness; the reminder of what Vandelin has done to him has no business coming on the heels of an expression of love like that. He draws in a sharp breath of his own, reacting, for once, on instinct and without careful planning.]

Don't--

[Don't what? Don't joke about it? Don't make that sound? Don't show affection Van doesn't deserve? He leans his forehead on the door frame, and forces calm.]

Call it providence that we got another chance. Even I have to wonder if it isn't. [He hasn't wondered, not really, but...maybe he ought to.] We're both here now, and we're alive, and--that's what matters, isn't it?

[Can he even convince himself of that?]