Of course, he doesn't wish to hear it. Who would? Who would ever want to be burdened by knowing the cruel fate of a loved one's divine punishment for the sin of being born? Ravus didn't wish for that weight either, but knows the way it will forever bow Ignis the way it has bowed him too.

So he doesn't push. He simply obeys that beckoning gesture, and sticks close. Close enough to be near enough to brush if Ignis wants to take solace in that, but Ravus keeps the space carefully measured until he's ready.

Ignis is warming the kettle, and Ravus is bringing over the stock of tea leaves and herbs. Many of them he's brought from his foraging, and he's picking through chamomile and lavender when finally he's deigned with an answer. His fingers stop their slow movements over the dried sprigs, and his gaze falls on the steep shadows cast by the fire along Ignis' face. The dancing light need not show him anything. He can hear it all in the tightness of the other's voice.

"I could never wish that burden on anyone else; not on my worst enemies, but least of all on a dear, beloved friend," Ravus says quietly, and comes to sit before the fire with his jars of herbs and a pair of cups. He sits beside Ignis, this time close enough to brush him as he settles. "Though my sympathy could never ease the pain, I am sorry it has been etched into your heart all the same."