There's so much he would yearn to tell her if he knew of her doubts, so many ways he would try to reach her in fear for her soul--even if he would argue that her soul could still be saved, as could Sina's, because nothing the Maker has wrought can ever be lost for good. Sina's meandering journey through the Void would be finite, cut blessedly short the moment she renounced her false gods, and she'd be welcomed into the Maker's embrace where she belonged, to rest at his right hand and be Forgiven. It's so achingly simple, and how could anyone not find comfort in that?

But Fern doesn't ask, and he doesn't volunteer any more. He understands well enough to know that earnest sermons about the Maker's light aren't what everyone wants in their darkest moments. Awkwardly, still as if afraid he might clumsily break something, he runs a hand very lightly over her hair as she presses her forehead against him.

"Never what?" he asks gently. That look on her face is a sharp, firm needle-jab to the conscience--how many apostates like her has he given cause for it before? But even with her description of Sina in mind, even with the vague idea it gives him of the nature of her feelings, he doesn't know why she looks so worried.