"She's our goddess and we're hers!" he manages to croak, the words torn, barely above a whisper, from his ravaged throat.

He won't hear Her called cruel, not in Her treatment of them, not without finding some last iota of strength in himself to counter the insult. It's the last strength he can muster, though, and he wishes for nothing so much than that he had the energy to curl in on himself, draw into a ball against the cold and the eyes and that voice, insidious and coaxing.