[Between the dark and his paint, Ortus knows that his blush will be imperceptible. He rolls the cherry bombs in his palm again, then considers the possibility of accident, and sets them gingerly on his lap instead. It would not do to meet the same fate twice. There would be too much of the cheaply ironic in it.]

I have thought about it.

[He closes both of his hands around the near-empty cup, dwarfing it, the admission unexpected and shy. He has thought about it, but he has submerged that thought so deeply that he does not understand how readily it comes to him now. He clears his throat, briskly, as if to knock the past words aside.]

It is a more complicated matter, and one whose workings I am not privy to. It is a sacred mystery. [This, once more, is less fraught a topic.] I do not judge those who would avert their eyes from an unfathomable end. The shadow of the Tomb has little comfort to offer, save duty, and silence. Such things do not serve as balm for most.