"Careful," he murmers in her ear, his strong hands covering hers on the hilt of his sword. "That's my soul you're holding."
"Oh," she says. "That makes sense. That's why it feels like you."
"Off-balance. Like standing on shifting sand. I have to hold on to something when you're close by, to keep from falling over."
Later, much, much later, when he wakes up one morning and she is gone, along with the sword, he does not much mind. She can't lose herself, not completely. He's got her feathered robe.