ever marching as to war

"I know you are," I tell him, which is true. Even if it weren't written into every line of his face, after everything we've gone through and watching him deal with it blow by blow, I would know. I wish it wasn't. I wish he could see just how much none of this is his fault, but that's the gift of perspective, and it's almost impossible to have it when you're stuck in the middle of something, or crushed under its weight. I keep my hand over his neck, let the weight of my arm rest against his shoulder.

"I know. I forgive you." It can't hurt to say it again.