He does not push her away. He can tell himself, will no doubt tell himself, that it is down to the heaviness of his limbs and that uncomfortable knowledge that he must, after all, rest to restore himself as soon as possible to fighting condition. He can tell himself that he feels no comfort in her closeness, that there is no part of him that turns towards the weight of her body against the furs; he can tell himself, too, that if he did, it would only be a kind of habituation, for they have in the past few years slept beside one another more often than not. He can tell himself many things. He has always been a consummate liar.

What he cannot do is stifle his own answering yawn, or resist the urge to let his eyes close again and remain closed. Nor is he master enough of his own body, in this moment, to keep it from shifting a little closer still, until her breath brushes cool against his fevered cheek. He cannot dwell too much on it, except to think that perhaps, if he is fortunate, they will both have forgotten such small lapses by the morrow.

"What a man values," he warns, in a voice made less stern by the yawn half-stifled beneath it, "is what will kill him. What he loves. Why do you think I love nothing but victory?"

But victory is cold and as empty as a ringing bell, and she is warm, and he has found himself strangely at peace here in that warmth.