Now that she finds herself in a position to truly examine him without fear of his death, Aelynthi begins to notice the weathered appearance of his pelt and the many scars he has gained in the years since their last meeting. She knows it is not her place to prod, after all it was none of her business, but that did not stop her nosy brain from spewing invasive questions nonetheless. Time has worn you down, Roarke...How many have you fought? It's almost immediately regretted, the taste of anxiety induced bile plaguing her mouth nearly as soon as it's asked. She did not know if he chose the battles or the battles chose him and it wasn't for her to know anyways...but alas, too late. A quiet cough is used to try to divert back to the topic at hand, Roarke's flirtatious comment naively flying over Aelynthi's head. There's a stream not far. Maybe a few minutes. Need me to lend a shoulder in case you fall? The colossal elf semi-begins to stand, about halfway between a fully committed stand, eagerly awaiting her friend's answer.

Aelynthi is staring. He can feel her gaze upon his fur, slicked down by sweat. Her question isn’t a surprise so much as the comment that comes with it. How did she notice - does he look that old, that worn away? Has grief carved itself into his face, as surely as the scars from his battles?

"Not enough." He murmurs, unable to keep looking at the patchwork woman. Not enough to keep his family together, not enough to save them. Not enough to keep his second, and third, chance at love with him. The scars on his body are proof of his failure.

Roarke stands slowly, testing out the strength in his legs. With a wince, he nods. "Aye - your shoulder." Not many could bear his weight, but she is strong, and he has little choice regardless; he doesn’t have the strength to walk alone.

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She studies him, watches as if she can watch the cogs turning in his head as he doubts his worth.. but Aelynthi was no mind reader. Even then, it's easy to tell in all her years when something is internally eating at someone, and Roarke is no different. His hesitation provides all the answer she needs long before the words leave his mouth and she offers him a solemn frown, inky lips curled into an unnatural frown. I'm sorry. It is not her fault, but she knows now more than ever the grief of continual loss.. the latest the closest friend she had ever had in in life, Nymeria. The charcoal woman started to a stand as her companion lifts himself onto unsteady legs with a wince, eyes widened in concern. He absolutely would not make it there alone, and so she willingly begins to guide very crusty, very sweaty Roarke towards the stream in the hopes that he will emerge a much less crusty version of himself. Thankfully there were not many obstacles in the path to the stream and within a few minutes they had arrived at their destination. She paused then close to the stream, watching him carefully as she fully intended to let him have a moment of privacy for his bath.

With Aelynthi’s help, Roarke makes it to the water. He steps from her side once it’s in reach, limping slowly into the cool steam and sighing as it slowly creeps up his body. His wounds soothed, his fur soaked.

Roarke dips head to drink a few mouthfuls and get that awful, bitter taste from his mouth, and then a glance over his shoulder betrays the lioness moving as if to leave, and Roarke barely holds back a grumbling sound of complaint. His head jerks up.

"Stay," he asks, brows furrowing over his dull eyes. "I - please."

He has no idea how to ask, truly, for help in his weakness. The words won’t come, and he does not know them.

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She is full of pride as he steps aside, even if he barely staggers himself into the water. To see him alive, breathing, conscious, was the most she could ask for. To see him stand when hours ago she was sure he had one foot in the afterlife? It was nothing short of pride and hopeful thinking. She moves to leave, to give him the space she knows most would ask for; grumbling. Ears cusp forward in confusion, turning to face her weakened friend as he tries his best to communicate his wishes. Stay. Aelynthi blinks slowly in recognition of his request, settling for a short nod as she turns back to him then.

The elf idles near the edge of the water, peering at him as he bathes himself of the muck, of the smell of death. Less crusty indeed. Of course. She replied softly, the slightest of smiles lighting up her face as she stands the ever dutiful guard dog. The colossal woman dared anyone to try. This time was not spent saving his life just for another to take advantage.

There’s understanding in her eyes - too much for Roarke to bear. He turns a little, shifting her face from his view as he continues to soak. He braves rolling, getting his sides and back damp, but there’s not a lot of effort in his cleaning. The day is warm enough that he won’t catch a chill from being in the water, so he doesn’t rush. If anything, it seems to be helping.

"... thank you." Roarke murmurs a little while later, the words a gruff and hesitant set. He means it, but it is so rare to find a reason to say them when he so rarely does. "I’d have died, if not for your help." Even if he would have won against the venom, would he have lived long enough without help? Would someone have ended his life while he was unconscious? Whatever the outcome, @Aelynthi was certainly the reason he lived.

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The absence of words allows silence to fall over the pair as @Roarke soaks in the stream. In her youth, Aelynthi had found the lack of noise to be a bother, but as she had grown older, it was almost a relief. The constant influx of noise could be deafening and it was nice to just be able to enjoy the sound of the stream, the birds overhead and the soft breeze that rolled through occasionally. She watches carefully, concerned eyebrows raising as he attempts to roll in the water as a means to get his back and sides clean. Her breath hitches in her throat, but as he remains conscious and fine, the cleric allows herself to relax enough to sit.

His words of gratitude catch her off guard, eyebrows furrowing as she tries to find the correct words to respond with. In any other scenario, a "you're welcome" or "of course" would have sufficed, but they were talking about his life. The colossal woman ponders a moment before finally finding what she considers the proper response to it. I couldn't....I couldn't leave you to die, Roarke. That's not what friends do. To sit back and allow someone, especially someone she considered a friend, to die when she had the power to help? Those were the actions of monsters, in her mind. Maua would never condone such behavior from one of her messengers, that Aelynthi was certain.

Friends? Is that what they are?

Roarke regards the lioness quietly, and for a long moment he says nothing. He doesn’t move, and he doesn't speak. In the end, he decides to say nothing. He returns his attention to washing himself clean, and only when he’s satisfied does he stand. Slowly, achingly, but he stands on his own paws. Roarke wades through the water until he is standing before @Aelynthi, looking up at the druid on the bank, as water drips from his body.

"I owe you my life," he says simply, flatly, without inflection at all. There is no remorse, no regret or guilt - he says it as if stating a simple fact. Regardless of her reasons - her friendship - to Roarke, it is a debt he cannot repay so easily.

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He stills, as motionless as if he were a picture, or a phantom. For a moment, Aelynthi wonders if he is suffering from more side effects and the charcoal had not worked as well as she thought. The rise of panic in her throat is enough to make her swallow a dry imaginative lump, eyebrows furrowing over soft green eyes as she begins to step forward to examine him. She pauses, paw outstretched with another step in mind as his response hits her like a freight train, rending her unmovable.

I owe you my life.

Owed? Life? A million emotions skew the panicked expression from her face as it all gives way to allow for her to process the depth of the statement he has made. In her eyes, life could never be owed. It was the nature and morality at hand that made it seem such a simple decision. To ignore the pain he had been in would have been something so unholy to the Creator, and the idea of even thinking of such a thing left a bile in her mouth that was hard to swallow.

To deny him the chance to live? A crime she believed made many unworthy of living themselves. You owe me nothing, you auca! Something stops her then, words a metaphorical lake threatening to overspill from the vulnerable dam that was her lips, teeth pressed together in hopes that the spillage could be avoided entirely. If I hadn't... I couldn't have lived with myself. Ears pivoted backwards in dismay, nearly flattening into her curly shag mane. What was she trying to say and why was it so hard?

Roarke does not need to know her language to understand when he is being called an idiot. He does not move, not even a change in his passive expression, as he watches @Aelynthi slowly come to terms with the matter-of-fact statement. She seems to struggle with it, eyes wide and almost frightened, as she looks down at him. It is so like her to feel she is owed nothing for her mercy; Roarke isn’t surprised by the denial, by her soft heart. She isn’t the first to be so strong and yet so very vulnerable, and good. It only makes the giant more sure of his words.

"Don’t cry," he asks, daring to step up the bank and press his muzzle against her cheek. "I am not dead." Thanks to her, but he refrains from reminding her of that. If Aelynthi wishes to pretend there is no debt, so be it. Roarke would not forget. He draws back and heaves himself up on to dry land, groaning softly with the effort.

Fade/exit?

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