[She doesn't think, not really. Maybe if she stopped to think, she would've chosen to do differently than she does. But he says my father's home and chooses it as his sacred thing to swear on, and it's stupid to have him vow on anything anyway but for a dizzying moment all she can think of is — is that she needs to impress upon him the severity of this, how deeply his choices affect her.

And so she reaches for his hands, and draws them up to her, and rolls up her sleeves.

It's cruel of her to do this, but that's all they're doing right now, is hurting each other.]

Swear on these.

[She fits his fingers to her scars. They fit perfectly, of course; those same fingers are the ones that made them.]

On the scars you left on me, that you will come back. That you will not put any more scars into me than you have already.