"Perhaps against it." This is a riddle, a game. He cannot speak with certainty, but knows, with gutting certainty that one false move will damn them. Somehow, this is the way of it: sing, rest listless and silent, cold wet building their tomb. There can only be one choice.

He makes it. "Sing."

A moment's decision, a heartbeat — and he bends the knee, waters risen to his waist and drenching his sides, rapidly burrowing in his silks. He offers the spread of his back quickly, motioning for the girl to mount, the difference of their heights ensuring him this single advantage.

They will rise, far too literally, above this challenge. Must.