[That kind of pragmatic stoicism isn't familiar to him when his thoughts will always be tied to the sins marked on the portrait hidden away in the room beside the kitchen. But maybe it's what it takes to weather the storm of eternal death with grace. When Larus describes it this way, he finds himself believing that for him, it might work.]

You aren't a melancholic, I'll give you that. [He lets the tension keeping the robe about him loosen at the touch, fabric sliding away from his chest and over a shoulder. Fingers on his skin are welcome, and he smiles slightly, drawing Larus in with the touch resting on his arm.]

Making peace with death isn't easy, but you make it sound like you're on your way.

[It's not a platitude. It's impressive. Artless too, but an artistic or dramatic approach to death has consequences he isn't eager to see repeated in someone he's coming to care for.]