[ She does need to know this. He wishes he'd have had someone to tell him; the person who helped prepare him focused less on the psychological and more on the physical. He was a pretty skinny young man, he didn't have nearly the muscle mass of half the other men in the arena. They went over how to avoid fighting, how to break the holds of a larger opponent. Physical stuff.

Not this part.

This is the part that almost got him killed. That second one especially, because it wasn't instant, it wasn't fast, he didn't immediately have to bolt. He slit the guy's throat while his own heart beat pounded so loud in his ears he couldn't think. There was no thinking. There was just adrenaline, and then blood, and then him gripping the knife too hard to let go. Blood on his hands, blood on his clothes, pure shock set in. He hit the ground, he fucking froze, and then it all came rushing back at once. He must've sat there out in the open rocking back and forth over the guilt for twenty fucking minutes, defenseless, easy pickins.

He got lucky.

He doesn't trust luck for her. It's not concrete enough. ]

You have to be afraid.

[ He says, and his voice comes out as a soft sort of whisper. Her head's on his shoulder, he knows she can hear him just fine. He doesn't put any energy into changing that. ]

People are gonna try to tell you to be brave. They're wrong. You have to be so scared for your life you don't even think anymore. You can't talk yourself out of it if you're fucking terrified.