Oh. [ Hollowly. He didn't know that. Didn't know Crichton nearly as well as he thought, as he keeps finding out over and over again. But he's still angry enough to half feel guilty, and half think: good. Good -- he doesn't mean it with any sincerity, but there's a sick, bloody sense of tit-for-tat to it all the same.

Valdis's voice is getting nearer. So are her soft footsteps. Arthur knows the layout of the room well, and with a hand out to catch the post at the foot of the bed, he moves sideways and around it, giving himself room to back up. Keeping distance.

Until she starts talking about Faroe. Then his demeanour is once again aggressive, the aggression of something injured and cornered and clawed: his hand tightens around the lamp again, illogically, and he doesn't even let her finish before the answer rips out of him. ]

Don't. Don't talk about her. Don't try to fucking understand. He shouldn't have told you. He shouldn't have told anyone. Don't fucking talk about her. She's not... [ Yeah, Valdis has hit the nail on the head here: ] She's not saved.

[ Crichton didn't save her. And nor did Arthur, when it actually would have counted.

His eyes were already red; now there are tears in them again, and he hates it, because crying brings sympathy that he has no fucking right to receive. ]