[ She lowers her eyes as he sheds his robe. Not prying or peeking as he makes himself comfortable. Then pushes herself down until she's laying properly, curling onto her side.
It does not surprise her, particularly, that he doesn't seem quite sure what to do lying in a bed. The Deer-Striders often complained of the same, when they came to the isle for the first time. At least until they finally experienced winter and why it was not wise to not sleep outdoors or with little coverings. Why everyone should rug themselves tightly in many many layers. Though now she was have much the opposite problems. Every day here she felt she was going to melt away under the glare of the sun here.
So she tsks, watching him lay there like a stiff board. A little huff of laughter that is quiet, so quiet and she realises she cannot remember when she laughed at much of anything. It feels like a lost skill, and certainly, it rasps some. The scar on her throat had damaged her voice, torn at the only thing she ever had that was her own.
When he seems as settled as he is going to get, which seems barely at all. She curls a little closer, next to his shoulder - and fishes for a song she was still capable of. Not touching of course, not pushing anything but to lay there. Then she starts on the first note. The same kind of lullaby she has sung for her own children. Her own native tongue that she carves the words and tune with, high in her throat, but quiet because no longer could she carry the notes as she once did. ]
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[ She lowers her eyes as he sheds his robe. Not prying or peeking as he makes himself comfortable. Then pushes herself down until she's laying properly, curling onto her side.
It does not surprise her, particularly, that he doesn't seem quite sure what to do lying in a bed. The Deer-Striders often complained of the same, when they came to the isle for the first time. At least until they finally experienced winter and why it was not wise to not sleep outdoors or with little coverings. Why everyone should rug themselves tightly in many many layers. Though now she was have much the opposite problems. Every day here she felt she was going to melt away under the glare of the sun here.
So she tsks, watching him lay there like a stiff board. A little huff of laughter that is quiet, so quiet and she realises she cannot remember when she laughed at much of anything. It feels like a lost skill, and certainly, it rasps some. The scar on her throat had damaged her voice, torn at the only thing she ever had that was her own.
When he seems as settled as he is going to get, which seems barely at all. She curls a little closer, next to his shoulder - and fishes for a song she was still capable of. Not touching of course, not pushing anything but to lay there. Then she starts on the first note. The same kind of lullaby she has sung for her own children. Her own native tongue that she carves the words and tune with, high in her throat, but quiet because no longer could she carry the notes as she once did. ]