There was, again, the same sudden tension. He'd met the news of her possible impending execution with cold, white-faced rage, tightly controlled but sending him shaking from head to foot, and then he'd vanished for a while. It almost seemed like he might do it again now despite having just told her that he wouldn't go anywhere.
"You aren't going to die," he said firmly, and maybe his sudden grip on her arm was painful, in the state she was in, but he didn't care. She was solid, present, and so was he. "So whether you want to die hearing me say I'm sorry or not is ********' irrelevant.
You aren't going to die, because I'll run off into a hurricane and I'll crawl through Wonderland and I'll go two miles underneath Middle-of-Nowhere Russia into the teeth of whatever is down there just to make sure you're OK but I will
not do any Orpheus and Eurydice s**t, so there is your line in the sand for where I'll chase you.
You are not going to die."
