( The standing, that is the ugly work of it. Breath broken and heaving, he struggles to reconvene his balance a moment more, stumbling, before falling in step. It should shame him, the lack of composure — it honours him instead, a body of recovering bones, of flesh that insists to aid him in time so that he might pay his dues.

Vanessa calls forward. He falls in step, aligned, their shoulders within such tightness of distance, he nearly feels the vapors of bodily warmth — so often taken for granted and neglected, but, apparently, for when they've lingered too long beside titans and frost wyrms.

The creatures will overwhelm, he understands — if not their prey, then Vanessa. Perhaps both. He finds himself pitying, when he speaks again: )

Lend me your wrist. ( Mere courtesy call, than anything else. If he wishes, he could claim her hand, without permission. )