ââI⌠eh.â Her hands pause for a moment ( sheâd noticed his flinching, too, wonders if sheâd hurt him ). âWe donât, really talk. It, uh, was a bit a-awkward⌠I left.â Like he did, she supposes.
ââŚI like that name.â She doesnât say it out of polite conversation-making: genuinely likes its sound, it reminds her of lotus and lavender flowers, and rain; sometimes she wishes her own was something a little more special, feminine, sometimes she wonders if a different name wouldâve made her a different person, too. âCiriâ doesnât convey images of elegance, the whiff of perfume or the pleasant soft chiming of bells; â perhaps dried hay and dirt-stained hands, or patched up clothes and splintering wood. Well, then again, she doesnât particularly dislike anything about herself; is just all too aware of how simple she is. Unlike him. If Ira is a polished, richly decorated piece of wood ( the hilt of a sword ), then she is a functional, plain, freshly cut block ( something like a simple chair or the likes, easily ignored ). Even maimed, one can tell the difference between the two.
Itâs difficult to say whether this topic makes him comfortable or no â but heâd responded, so he must not have any qualms; assumed heâd have said nothing or flat out told her so otherwise. Once finished with the cleaning, she starts applying a soothing balm, fingers dipping softly on his flesh.
ââŚIâ think I understand why you think thatâs necessary.â Sheâll say no more of it. Her opinion is of no consequence, and itâs none of her business otherwise. But, thinking of his perspective, it seems logical. As the ally of a former tyrant, any association with him would endanger them⌠he acts aloof and cold, but there are glimpses of kindness in his actions. She smiles â and his question catches her off guard. Writing â oh, she hasnât tried it for a few weeks, months now, and feels rather guilty being reminded of her neglect.
 âOh. I, eh, yes. I, did. At first, he, w-w-wrote back. But, then he â stopped. So.â A pause; she bites her lip in hesitation, but then assuredly follows ( ensuring herself that a lack of news is good news ): ââHe, is p-probably, some place else.â Yes, surely. Once the balm is applied, a new bandage is used to cover him.
Her tone grows more practical then, thoughts turning to their plans.
âI will ask the healer-lady to come by to-morrow. I wonât, tell her, we, p-plan to leave.â The woman is easily worried. Itâll be best not to inform her of their plan to leave soon; sheâd suggest much longer. Ciri is growing restless, too, being used to moving from place to place. Perhaps Ira is the same, for different reasons. Sheâll suggest they sneak away without a fuss, without an announcement â he seems to kind to prefer this; leaving like a thief in the night. Itâs not her preferred way of doing things, but, it is a little exciting â and the most practical, considering how concerned both the healer and their host is. Finished with her work, the fresh linen is tightly pinned and tied, and she settles down in front of him once more;
âSoââŚHow, eh, are you feeling?â She asks â referring to his injuries, as well as his thoughts on their plans, and his emotional state ( he doesnât complain or appear troubled; that doesnât mean heâs doing well ). Thereâs very little she knows about him, and he only tells when asked; Ciri can only assume that if she inquires often enough and pays attention, sheâll gather snippets of information that she can piece together.
  Thereâs little he can say on the matter - heâs always been something akin to an outsider within his family; he belonged far more to his country and king than he ever had his own family. Awkward wasnât the right word to describe his own home life, as short and fleeting as it had been (as a child he had known no home other than the filthy streets of the slums and the courtyard of the castle). Strained would have suited it better, as if they had allowed, for a brief time, a wild animal to reside within their comfortable walls. Leaving is easy - solitude is known and familiar and comfortable to a feral dog who had lost his master and pack; he could, at least, understand that much.
  He canât nod in agreement at her statement without hindering her, so,  instead he offered a soft grunt. Layla, he thought, was a name that shouldnât have belonged to someone of her social status - perhaps her own mother had once held dreams of grander for her, but it suited her regardless. His own name sounded foreign in his head; he heard it so rarely, and thought nothing of it. He had lost more than his liege when the mad king had passed - he had lost his purpose for existing, and his own identity. And he had no desire to rebuild himself from the shambles of a knight and whatever else just barely remained.
  Her willingness to agree with his decision comes somewhat as a surprise given her continued involvement with his life, and how she values her own family. Though he hardly needed her to justify his actions, it appeased the tiny shred of guilt he felt. He remains still as he begins to feel her shift about and the change in the way her fingers tend to the wound; he can begin to guess at the process now, but it hardly matters. And it doesnât startle him to find out her uncle stopped writing at some point, though he had a strong feeling as to the manâs fate, he didnât give voice to his less than reassuring thoughts on the matter.
  âThe war has displaced many families, perhaps he was forced to relocate.â It was hollow reassurance, but his voice is always level and without his eyes, itâs impossible to tell. While what he says is the truth, the amount of families the war had torn about was far greater - as was its civilian causality count, but he makes no note of it. Her belief that her uncle is still alive, and the faith she harbors in him is something heâs unwilling to shatter without proper proof. He will aid her in her search, even if he believes their mission to be an impossible one.
  The fewer people involved, the better, he believes. If the farmer and his wife were to learn of his desire to leave, they would most certainly protest or insist he remain. And though he knows his wounds will take an impossibly long time to fully heal, he canât afford to idle here much longer. Thereâs little reason to endanger more people than he already had. Once he leaves, the farmer, his wife, and the healer will be free to continue to live their lives without having to worry for their safety for harboring a criminal. As for Ciri, well, he is still a knight - both in mind and body, he may have lost his sight, but he still knows the feel of his blade and the rush of wind against his skin; trusts that Suntaria will be capable of coping for the time being until he adjusts, if he is given the chance to do so.
  He can feel the familiar heat of the bandages as she finishes wrapping them, though he dislikes it - it makes the wound swelter and burn all over again, he doesnât complain. âIâm fine,â he replies promptly. He offers nothing more; thereâs no reason to. âAre you all right with leaving like this?â He asks in return. After all heâs told her, she must be aware that leaving with him might not be peaceful.