"I know," Gideon gently murmurs, pulling him in even closer, hoping that she can tuck him into a place where it's warm and nothing hurts. She's not surprised Paul wants this to be his fault. It's how he's always talked about his visions, it's how Harrowhark talks about her. If this is Paul's fault, then he's responsible. If he's responsible, then he's in control.

Being in control is a luxury that Gideon has never known, but she knows Harrow well enough to understand how hard that is to lose. And, she thinks, it's still better to lose control than it is to be really, truly responsible for the premature death of someone you loved, or someone the person you love loved.

"I know." Said again. Said like: I see you.

The whole point of this is for Paul to not be alone, so Gideon takes a steadying breath. She closes her eyes. There is a door that she keeps locked always, because there is oblivion on the other side, and she cannot let it in.

Gideon turns the key. Gideon's eyes stay closed, and they are damp, and she is glad Paul cannot see them.

"You're right," Gideon says, fighting to keep a quaver out of her voice, and mostly succeeding. "It's not fair." A deep breath, a plea for her body to not choke on this. "It fucking sucks."

And then she slams the door shut, because she has to, and the grounding circles she makes are as much for her as they are for Paul.

"But I'm glad you came back." It's still so bright in here. "I have something for you."