She sat down, embarrassed and uncertain, aware that she was staring. At last, because she could think of nothing else to say, she asked, "Why do you sit alone?"
He smiled at that. "Because I choose to do so."
"Oh."
After what for her was a prolonged, awkward silence, he said quietly, "Come to ask for an apology, have you?"
She stared her incomprehension. "An apology? For what reason?"
He cocked an eyebrow and considered her. "For abducting you and bringing you here," he reminded her. She gave him an odd look and shrugged, and the gesture, he noticed, somehow made her look very young.
"I have heard the full tale now, and can understand for myself why I was brought here. But," she admitted reluctantly, "I still find you intimidating, even though the matter seems resolved."
He smiled sadly, sardonically, at that. "What, afraid to wake up and find me crawling through your bedroom window some night, intending to carry you off?"
She heard the underlying sadness in his tone, and was troubled, for though young, she understood what it meant. She felt a surge of pity indistinguishable from the beginnings of warmth and empathy for this being. He was huge and fearsome, true; he had been hard and ungentle with her, true; but there was another kind of strength in him, another kind of understanding, and underneath it all, another kind of gentleness and kindliness. And so much pain . . .