He almost says, Try it. There's a quick and dirty initiation for anyone. It worked for John: a guy can ignore feeling every mote of life and death in the soil, but he can't ignore the way everyone else crumples when they have fallout in their hair. A blade through his heart might even tickle. Maybe it would stop him for a full second, a full minute, maybe it would feel like he's finally resting his eyes.

But then she'll do something awkward like scream or cuss him out and run, or— worse— hit her knees and pray. He'll have to work them right back here, to this moment. Skipping that just saves time.

"You could," he says. "But I'm about as useful with no sword and no cavalier as I am trying to carry it alone. I'll take the gamble." He does not lower the offered blade: it stays between them, shining against his plain and uncallused palms. "I know you're a soldier, you have bad taste in graveyards, and you have good taste in jokes. That's enough."