[The difference in what's performed and what's practiced has rarely gnawed at Yuan more; but he has significant practice lifting his chin and challenging anyone who looks to make something of it. Most people do not, in fact, care to make something of it, and so as they return to the Sylvaranti camps, while the slave with the basket of flowers draws some curiosity, and indeed some words, Yuan presses on like nothing has changed, and like nothing will be changed.]

[When they are back in their camp, and Yuan is not obvious about making sure Kratos gets down from the cart all right, he cannot feasibly say anything about the tear-shadows.]

[And there's still food to be handled, or-- there would be, if someone's second-in-command hadn't noticed they were out a little late and left covered food in Yuan's tent. He's going to thank An-Lin later. Or, at least gently express his appreciation.]

[Inside the tent, though it's scarcely any barrier, Yuan's shoulders slump like the press of observation is a true weight, and he turns to Kratos with questions in his eyes. The pressing one, are you all right, is too stupid to be asked aloud.]

Do you need to sit?

[Do you need anything? Yuan does not know what it is, to grieve like this. He never has, save perhaps the grief of possibilities.]