Moonspear eye of the untold her

The response was not entirely unexpected, but it still blew him away to hear the words. He supposed, privately, that she must be right. Her lady parts were ornamental, and she had all the right equipment to be as much a man as Kindle himself. But he loved her, and he wanted her, so that must make her a woman. Mustn't it?

He didn't say that, though. Didn't say much of anything except, "Hey," and a few gentle, quelling sounds as he pressed forward, instinctively seeking to shut her up by way of soothing her. Eventually, "Listen to me," he urged — and then waited until he thought he had her attention to say,

"You're Treepie, alright? And you're the best woman I know, whatever else you are or you aren't."

He hated that he was the one comforting her. He knew she needed it, that she'd suffered a blow here that would last a lifetime. That this was the disappointing culmination of a lifelong dream and the death of the girl she thought she'd known. He knew this, but he was still so very angry.

"You'll be a mom," he told her, firmly. "You'll be a parent, at least, if you can't believe that. I'm sorry it can't be the way you wanted."

And he was. He was.