[ Marcille has only ever revealed her condition to a few people—not out of any shame or self-hatred, but only because the situation itself is complicated to explain. Her façade as a full-blooded elf had been an attempt to negotiate with the Canaries, but Cithis had broken it like throwing a stone into a glass house, leaving nothing but shattered pieces and all of its innards exposed.

Aside from her parents, the short-lived people Marcille surrounded herself with hadn't known about her lifespan at all. It was a blessing and a cruelty when it was discovered. All they could do was promise her to live full, long lives as best they could, and truly, that was all Marcille could ask of them herself. She had to accept the rift between her and other species, which also meant accepting that they might never understand her and her pain. She wanted to shape the world for the better once upon a time, and her vision of a better world wasn't anything more than a selfish wish.

Wriothesley is one of those people. He's a new, beloved friend to her who speaks so self-assuredly despite his inner conflict with how to respond. He knows how to command attention and chooses his words carefully. Marcille listens, looking miserably down at their clasped hands, her brow creasing at the mention of sixty, seventy years is too much for some, only because it means he's acknowledging her pain even if he doesn't share it.

She's still half-drunk and teary-eyed. She's silent for a moment, sniffing hard and still looking at their hands as the words sink in, a heavy stone settling slowly into a seabed. ]

I know. I know... [ She draws back one hand and wipes her eyes with the back of it. ] You're right. I could gain a lot from living that long too, even if I'll lose just as much. You're a good guy, Wriothesley.

[ She pats his hand and then lets it rest there. ]

If you could choose to live longer, would you do it?