"I'll talk to him."

The Ronso nods, and leaves, taking Masque's words as a dismissal.

It's some time before Zveran stirs. 

Masque squeezes his hand as he does.

Zveran slowly shuffles closer to them. "How long have I been out?"

"A while," Masque says, not quite evasive.

"Long enough to make you very worried, hm?"

Masque hums, brushing Zveran's hair out of his face again, fingers careful and tender.

Zveran's hand gently rests on the edge of Masque's mask...and draws them inwards.

They let themself be drawn, confused.

Zveran presses his lips, gently, to their mask.

-They have no idea how to respond to that.

Zveran holds them close for a moment, then lets them go. 

"Sorry." He gathers his things together. "We should probably get moving."

"It's fine," Masque assures. "If you...think you're well enough?"

"I'll..." He sighs. "I'll be all right." 

He sits himself upright, and rubs his face, then stands. He looks a little shaky, but well enough.

Masque is quiet. "A Ronso wanted me to talk you out of continuing. Said it was a pointless waste of life."

"A Ronso said that? They're some of the most truly devoted people in Spira! I must've looked pretty terrible, yes?" His tone is joking, but he looks genuinely worried. 

Masque nods, and it's perhaps apparent that they're still somewhat confused. "I just. Don't understand?"

"Why the Ronso said that?"

"Yes. Yes you looked bad. But."

"But?" 

"But I don't know why they're so certain you're going to die?"

Zveran hangs his head. Sighs. He knows exactly why. 

"It's not important. Come. We've got a little ways to go before Zanarkand." 

"...I think it is. What aren't you telling me?"

"You already knew I was going to die at the end of this. Whether I succeed or not, doesn't matter. Either way, I'm dying." 

Zveran shoulders his bag and makes for the pass.