His soul. Were she a religious woman, that would hold far more meaning to her; as it is, there is surprise, but it's muted. Hidden behind a steady expression, tinged only by a slight sadness deep in the blues of her eyes. How easy it is to recall her own experiences with those who were religious. Their fears that their souls would be lost, left to rot in the realm long after their deaths.

Under normal circumstances, she would deny the need for his arm. These are not, however, normal circumstances. Perhaps he needs the point of contact. She would. So she tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, gazing ahead. There are no simple solutions for a man who believes himself damned.

"Those I do are now dead." Her lips quirk in faint amusement. "I've survive the desert my lord. The wilds are far less forgiving than one might assume. My point still stands. We are caught in a war that is not our own, but we still need to forge ahead, much as you've said. Should you decide Olympia far too rigid for you, I've a spare room in my apartment here. You're welcome to it."