Constantine’s gaze shifted over him, and then the panic melted into pain. “You’ve been fighting.”
Val let his grimace fall away, blank-faced with exhaustion. “As any good puppet should.”
Constantine studied him a long moment, eyes touching every scrape and hurt, before he turned away, mouth pursed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve slayed your men,” Val said. “I’m sorry. I…” His stomach was a yawning chasm, guilt and hunger and self-loathing. “I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t bother you–”
“No,” Constantine said, forceful, facing him again. Gentler: “Do not apologize to me. Not for anything. There are men who don’t want to fight on both sides of this war, trust me.” He blew out a breath that left his shoulders slumping. “I only regret that I can’t help you. Don’t ever apologize for coming here, or for seeking my company.” Small, self-deprecating smile. “Such little comfort that it is.”
Val reached for him, his hand turning to smoke, throat clogged with tears.
“I know,” Constantine murmured, and moved his own hand, so that, had Val been here in the flesh, he would have been patting the back of it. “I know, son.”