Maybe

I love you Rose

Fiora holds his hands; even when flesh and blood they aren't soft. Callouses and cracks can be traced. The hands of a woman who holds her knives tightly, be she cooking or fighting. Killing or providing.

Hands that can do both, rather than only one. So unlike Egil, who has only known death for so long. Has only known how to take, and take, and take.

Take, while Fiora gives over and over, until there's barely anything left to give. Give and take, in a circle.

Maybe he can give something to her. Maybe she can take from him with a smile. Maybe they can break this cycle.

Maybe.