If she will not look at him, at least she'll speak, though the question she answers is not the one he'd just asked. His hands are warm on her shoulders, his eyes are on her face, watching the play and flicker of emotions as they cross her features.

No. She cannot always tell him; he has no right to expect that she'd tell him anything but what she wished to. How could he, when he is so completely cut off from this world and all it's troubles? Wishing to help does not give him the ability to make it possible.

And yet -- and yet this is not a threat against people he may sympathize for but will never meet. It isn't an idle warning, intended to terrorize villagers.

"This is not an idle threat," he says, gentle. "You don't have to tell me, but, Marian, neither do you have to be alone in this."