[ As Armand speaks, Emmrich's expression doesn't fall, exactly, but grows more open, his brows knitting, his eyes round and searching. His face is a clear canvas for the surprise that thank you provokes, his breast filling with— guilt? Grief? Gladness? (He's never been the sort to really hide his feelings, especially not in a context like this.) It's enough emotion, regardless, to suppress his natural curiosity at Armand's claim at a living death, bypassing his usual inclination toward inquiry. ]

I don't believe I deserve your gratitude, [ he says carefully, passing a hand over his forehead. ] But I ... I'm glad that death — that life — brought you some measure of peace.

[ He stops short of saying more, uncharacteristically soft-spoken in the face of the consequences of his actions, so clearly and earnestly presented. He'd known people had died — had seen them bleed out and perish — but there's something uniquely painful about the idea of succumbing not because of the revenants, arguably not his doing, but because of an illness he'd allowed to finish its terrible work.

He hesitates before speaking next, aware that what he's asking is deeply personal, but they've arguably crossed that confiding line already. ]

—Do you wish it? To be mortal again?