Stavanger Bay I know what they say, I know that they say that no one dies from love

She had done so well; she had avoided letting him see the full extent of her grief, though she knew he sensed her distance. But now Lestan had soft words for her, apologies for all the wrong things. I don't want to be the reason you live; was it wrong of her to be so hurt?
It just didn't make sense to her.
Reverie had never tried to hide it. At every crossroads she chose Lestan, for every horrible offense she forgave him, and rarely had she gone against his word when it was spoken. These were things she'd done for love of him, for devotion, and he had accepted it readily enough. How could he expect to hold such power over her with none of the responsibility, none of the burden? How could he expect her to love him so wholly that she would gaze unblinking into his rage, into his murderous hatred for children, for babies, and still love him, without needing him too? Lestan's decisions, throughout their relationship, had forced her to part from her beliefs, the goodness she tried to nurture in herself in spite of unforgiving conditions; her anchor to this world in absence of Rose. She could have been okay with that, and had been, once.
Reverie's gaze turned back to her husband slowly in the wake of his words, but she could not seem to find her own. She only looked at him for a long moment, and finally started to cry, and then the tears turned to sobs and she was burying her face in her forelegs and trying desperately to stifle them. But she couldn't stop. She trembled, and curled in on herself, and wished that Lestan would just — leave. As he'd tried to do so many times already.