It's not easy to ignore the stares of the staff, the way people look at her; this is a war, of course, there is blood and death around them, but having it so close to home, so close to someone who had always been kind to them must be a strange feeling, a fearful one. Her silence in the wake of it doesn't do much to comfort them but they're quick to follow Dorian's commands as easily as they would her; they know that he is her friend, that they are as close as family (close, some whisper, as he leads her to her rooms) and she's tugged away.
She looks distraught as she's taken from Dorian's side, as if he's all that's keeping her together, but a soft word of you must be clean, my lady, for him and she relents.
The bath itself is nothing. She doesn't feel it, she doesn't even care about her own modesty. They wash her and clean her and plait her hair, keeping it out of her face, hands touching her cheeks and softening her gently, trying to draw her out of the stupor she's found herself in. Each whisper of my lady makes her flinch, makes her stomach twist and a tear rolls down her cheek, wiped away by a tender hand and a soft touch, the servants whispering soft comforts to her as she stands.
The pyjamas she has are from home, soft cotton trousers and a light vest, and she dresses almost robotic before she's nudged out back towards her bedroom. As soon as she sees her friend she rushes back to his side, taking his hand and squeezing, tight, letting him guide her. It's hard for her to take her hand away from him, the anchoring knowledge that he is alive and well and that he is fine, he's back and she hasn't lost him. It's easier, after that, to slide into bed and let him join her, to shift and move to wrap herself around him.
"Dorian," she whispers, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. She traces it, slowly, along the bone, the corner of his eye, memorising him before she breathes out and shakes her head. "You saved me. I'm lucky to have you. I don't deserve -" her voice cuts off with a sad little noise, her palm pressed directly to his skin. She cannot put into words how glad she is to have him here, how thankful that he survived, how much she loves him.
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She looks distraught as she's taken from Dorian's side, as if he's all that's keeping her together, but a soft word of you must be clean, my lady, for him and she relents.
The bath itself is nothing. She doesn't feel it, she doesn't even care about her own modesty. They wash her and clean her and plait her hair, keeping it out of her face, hands touching her cheeks and softening her gently, trying to draw her out of the stupor she's found herself in. Each whisper of my lady makes her flinch, makes her stomach twist and a tear rolls down her cheek, wiped away by a tender hand and a soft touch, the servants whispering soft comforts to her as she stands.
The pyjamas she has are from home, soft cotton trousers and a light vest, and she dresses almost robotic before she's nudged out back towards her bedroom. As soon as she sees her friend she rushes back to his side, taking his hand and squeezing, tight, letting him guide her. It's hard for her to take her hand away from him, the anchoring knowledge that he is alive and well and that he is fine, he's back and she hasn't lost him. It's easier, after that, to slide into bed and let him join her, to shift and move to wrap herself around him.
"Dorian," she whispers, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. She traces it, slowly, along the bone, the corner of his eye, memorising him before she breathes out and shakes her head. "You saved me. I'm lucky to have you. I don't deserve -" her voice cuts off with a sad little noise, her palm pressed directly to his skin. She cannot put into words how glad she is to have him here, how thankful that he survived, how much she loves him.