It does not bother Lúthien that she leads him in her way. Her spirit pressed onwards, alive, his grey figure a stone, lacking the features of grace illuminating her poise. Perhaps she may have been a dancer, and he the weathered statue; gazing eternally, and reserving himself so that he too will break his binds. A dancer he was not though, and never had been… as a boy he’d been too shy. And as adolescence would show him, he was often too clumsy to follow the steps of a spirited maiden. He would run; he had always ran and somehow his legs would transport him to that place all dancers must levitate to in the height of their performance. With youth by his side, and stamina to keep him, he could forget himself in the pure, unintelligent rush of blood and will.

His focus reigns in however, as her voice crosses the air. The sight of water indicating her instruction; he pauses before he can even begin to savor its blessed sound. “Thank-you, Lena… and you must forgive me.” He frowns. “I must appear to you as some beggar from the outlands. Bitter. I hope in the future, you will at least see beyond the nomad’s tire.” There is barely a smile on his face. He has finally claimed himself to be other than this, for all he can recall is the sour response of a wayward mind. Despite her previous convictions he makes amends, allowing his body to be drawn by the water, and for his lips to devour the liquids that press against his weathered maw.

Dark eyes become half-lidded, the strain of hard knotted muscle relax as much as they are capable. Greasy, wispy hair flops, shifting. As the harsh climate spurred him forwards, his spirit rejoices by these mere simplicities of life. Water, the crawling hands of shadows, another soul. Since when had life become so complicated? Fractured and webbed within lies and truths found? These moments in their duplicity fed him nonetheless, crumbs that would fill the gap for a while longer; until his strength pulls inwards to build.

A while longer his head eventually raises. “This is your home.” He says simply, sober eyes grazing her face. “World’s Edge, I see, is not spared by the sun’s hatred. Granted-,” he sweeps his eyes across the terrain. The wooded area would have been ripe; greens of all sorts, an emerald passing were it not for the sky. “- this would be an impressive forest.” A note of observation, one that has carried far into the interior of this Helovia. A reserved smile passes his lips. “Trifle, but I imagine your people are strong. Such slights are phantasmal in the stewardship of those who live to define their lands.” And you, Lena, appear to be as such.