Oh, he was no mountaineer. A giant, a leviathan, a monster turned warlord and General. The inklike draft could be a mountaineer, a creature doomed to dwell the heights of the world and face the fears of the cowardly. Though, it was on a daily turnabout that the stately brute faced the fears of the cowardly. He was a fighter, a machine, a champion—a king among warriors, as he had been referred to before. The Dauntless was a gladiator, in the rawest sense, a slave of Mandrake to fight for her own entertainment—but he had changed that, hadn’t he? Or was he still a slave, fighting for the enjoyment of others? Oh, questions immeasurable. Archibald did not have time for them, no, he only had time for her in this moment, face to face with what would shape to be a life-long battle of lust and relationship.

She answered his question with the bluntness of a warrior. Despite the fact that Archibald could undoubtedly see the answer, painted over her sulking frame and dropped eyes, the words still hit him like the kick of many a foe. Archibald, generally so glacial and distant, took a step towards his Executioner with his head lowered. Tipping his muzzle forward, his golden eyes flicked to meet Circe’s, before he touched the point of her left shoulder. It was such a simple gesture, gentle in nature and meant to comfort. The warrior had never been one to speak everything he felt or knew, and used the most instinctive form of touch and body language to execute what his mouth could not. He knew her pain, he felt it so deeply himself, and he knew there was nothing that could be done to mend the brokenness that their hearts shared. "You are strong,” Archibald added, nodding slightly before lifting his head again.

"We’ve been….well. We spent most of the season scouting the north, looking for threat or ally alike.” Archibald could not stand to tell her that he could not stand to be at home, to see the faces of those that had witnessed the destruction of his heart. Evers, Knox, Phaedra…and most importantly, her. With a flick of his tail, Archibald looked down to Loretta. Go, he instructed. Loyally, though not without a growl of defiance, the bitch turned heel and bound towards the Foothills. "Circe, I—I should not have left you.” He had convinced himself many times that she did not need him. "I know you don’t need me, or want me, to say this, because you are capable of life and freedom and survival, but—“ the authoritarian paused, turning his head to face the dark horizon, "I have silently claimed you for my own, and likewise myself to you.”