If it had been a ruse to kill her, a fictional hand of aid that hid a dagger up its sleeve, it would have never crossed her mind to be wary or afraid; she rarely felt these things, repugnant and ugly as they were, and to feel these things of a herd mate seemed foolish in more ways than one, mostly that she was daft enough to remain among people she expected to kill her but also because there was little point to binding together if common ground could not be stood upon. In her mind, the act of Torleik’s kindness was as it was, and if it came to be that it was not, she would deal with it at that time; while she plots and plans and pulls her strings, she is often reckless with her own life, especially when overwhelmed by a current of emotions that so rarely breaks free of the thick, time crafted dam that binds them back.

She feels his eyes heavy on her, even when they watch the sea; it is a self condemnation of her tears and her pain, that she has let another in beneath her skin so far as to allow this level of agony when the hollow is noticed. That he notices something even she does not on her face as she turns her tear streaked features away slips her notice, her mind too weary to search for the hidden clues in facial expressions and changes of tone as it normally thrives in doing, her heart too sore to find delight in a game she has played her entire life.

It is only a game. It is part of what cost her everything.

It fills her with bitterness towards herself, another hot wave cresting over the cold, unbearable undulations of her sorrow.

Perhaps there is not so much shame in being kind, as Torleik is, as so many others she has met; in his stoic way he helped her more than a thousand words and a million tears ever could, and in her heart, she sets aside her games and makes a vow to try and be… kinder to those she knows in her life, even if she owes them nothing and cares for them even less. If her herd is willing to reach out to hold her above water when they know her as vaguely as this man knows her, she owes them much more than cold manipulation by which she has honored them until this point.

It’s a shameful thought, one she is glad to let go off when the conversation turns to a chilly, wonderful sounding place that the snow dappled man had been born to. She listens with interest on her face, the tears slowing welling into nothingness as she is swept away to a place that does not know her or the name of her lost love, it could be a realm pure and sweet as she wished it to be, untainted by failure or dismay. And it sounded so, the way he painted it with his words, even when sadness ebbed into the dreamy landscape he had colored for her.

She understands feeling that way, perhaps too well; she had been young when she had learned to stay abreast the violent currents of life without the aid of others. Torleik would do fine; her smile is warm, her eyes gleaming, and they say as much even before she speaks. "There is a future for you still," she says softly, one of her many mantras following her gentle words of comfort (so small in comparison to what he did for her now, the night lulling the sounds of the sea into a song that rang with highlights of crickets and night-birds, the silvery ring of fish rising up and back into the water), "no one lives who serves no purpose. I lost my home once, too, as you heard through our tales. It becomes easier to bare as time passes. All things do."

That she speaks of truths that could ease her own soul does not pass her, her smile becoming one of shy humor that she mocks her own pitiful condition in the present. An ache in her knees seems to make known its presence as the dark stallion begins to lower himself to the ground, his words elaborating on the action that was in itself obvious. She knows it’s a gesture of politeness to explain, but something about the inanity of it all makes her almost laugh and she mimics his movements and settles against the earth with a smile on her face, almost sweet in comparison to her usual seductive and mynx-like grins.

"The gulls will assure we’re awake," she says with a breathless laugh, feeling sleep tugging at her with its warm, blurry fingers, "they have a riot in the morning over the early schools."