Hello, my lovelies! I. AM. BACK.

I'm so sorry it took me so long. Things got in the way.

First: I got a bad case of cold. After that, I went to my first concert in 2.5 years - Rammstein, it was so worth it - and, of course, I got COVID. I survived, thanks to the vaccination. But after that the report cards (= Zeugnisse) for my students were due and then I had to say farewell to my 6th-graders who I've been teaching for three years. All in all, it was a lot. But now the Summer Break is finally here! YAY!

So, there you go! Enjoy!

"What?! You want me to kiss it better?!"

5) First aid – first said

A beat or two, and then the guards could not be seen anymore, and if that hadn't been sign enough for the pirate prince to come out of hiding, then it sure as hell would have been Myra silently – always silently – moving away to give him space. Jumping up back on his feet with a little more dramatic flair than would have been necessary, Amrothos dusted himself off with the smirk of a winner who had just happened to have some damn dumb luck. That smug grin, however, faded as soon as he looked over to his little partner in crime.

His little fishmonger didn't look good; she looked shaken. Now, of course, she had held it in pretty well for a civilian, but that was only to be expected for someone that had survived in the slums of Moray Trench, and yet it was unmistakable that the encounter had thrown her quite a bit. Not the least because she was trembling with a very crude but extremely sharp filleting knife in her right hand. Of course, he knew it could have been a lot worse – worst-case scenario would have been her standing there holding up a fucking swordfish, looking like an absolute madwoman.

Shaking his head to get rid of such hilarious images, Amrothos thought it best not to burst out laughing in a charged moment quite like this, and anyway, it was hard to find much humour in the situation they were in. And yet, he had no fucking idea how best to approach this situation other than with humour, as humour had always been his go-to approach with almost any uncomfortable situation, but still, he knew his little fishmonger would definitely not appreciate him trying to crack one of his many stupid jokes. And not just because she was still holding on to that sharp little filleting knife but also because her left hand, drenched in her blood, was still clenched into a fist – the look of a woman with absolute hatred in her heart and murder in her eyes.

So … definitely not someone whose wrath he wanted to attract.

But, of course, he should have known better than to worry about how to calm down his little fishmonger, because as much as they had grown comfortable around each other in their little business partnership in the last few weeks, that woman still had a harder shell than a fucking oyster – and he was in no damn mood to go fucking cracking. So, yeah, he wasn't proud of himself that he felt relieved when she simply shrugged off the whole ordeal and went straight back to business, only acknowledging him by jerking her head towards the stall-skeleton, signalling him to go back to work … and so he did. Yeah, he really wasn't proud of that; but was he relieved? Damn right he was.

Pretending to care was such an exhausting job after all.

And really caring?

Fucking hell, that was even more exhausting.

And yet, even though he was glad to be spared the sight of that shrew of a woman breaking down in front of him, Amrothos still couldn't quite shake the feeling that he couldn't just let that incident go by unnoticed – his hands most certainly couldn't concentrate on the task he was supposed to be doing. It was a nagging feeling really; something somewhere somehow in the back of his mind telling him that he owed her for this. And while she might not have saved his life, she had very well saved his hide with this act of … of what? Kindness? Generosity? Good-heartedness? Not exactly traits he would associate with his little fishmonger, and definitely not with anyone from the bottom of Moray Trench. And yet, she had protected him by hiding him, and at the cost of her own safety as well, and that was something he just couldn't let pass without comment.

'Hey.', was all he said at first, not knowing what else to say or how to address her and this whole situation, and with some annoyance he noticed that his throat felt dry all of the sudden. Swallowing hard, trying to ignore that uncomfortable feeling in his gut, Amrothos stilled in his work, and then just waited, waited for her to respond to him. But after a minute or two spent in silence, without any of her usual reactions – no scoffing, no snarling and certainly no pieces of dead fish thrown his way – the pirate prince forced himself to turn his head and to look over his shoulder, to see what was going on.

Myra was standing behind the wheelbarrow, her hands still diligently working away at filleting the fish for her to sell later, making her seem completely absorbed in her task. For a moment there Amrothos wondered if she had actually even heard him, but he discarded the thought as soon as it had crossed his mind. There was just something about the way she was staring down at her task, working away at it dutifully as a soldier; well, perhaps, too dutiful – that frown clouding her forehead told him that she was definitely doing some thinking there.

Perhaps, too much thinking.

So, perhaps, that was why he spoke up again, why he didn't let it slide. Because he knew very well what it felt like to get lost in one's own thoughts, and because he wouldn't want to risk letting her spiral like that, even if she seemed hell-bent on doing this her own way, offering him the chance to follow her lead here and to just forget the whole ordeal. But no, he wouldn't go down the easy road this time; he had done it before, because it was the easier thing to do for himself, but no, not this time. This time he would force himself to face the facts and address the oliphaunt in the room, even if it was damn uncomfortable to do so.

'Myra.', he spoke again then, louder this time, to make sure that she'd really heard him this time, and to make sure that she couldn't intentionally ignore him as she had probably done before. And he rose up too, from his work, to make a point, to show her that he wouldn't let her off the hook so easily, pretending that everything was fine when really it was not. But when even that didn't get through to her, he took a hesitant step towards her, just one – after all, she was still holding a sharp, little filleting knife in her hand and he thought it best to stay out of reach for the moment.

'Your hand.', he added then, pointing to the obvious, forgoing any superfluous explanation, and indeed, that seemed to get through to her at long last, as she stilled in her busy movements, hands frozen in mid-motion. For a moment, she actually seemed to contemplate his words and the meaning behind them, but then she only clenched her left hand to a fist a couple of times before going straight back to her work. The message behind it was clear.

Amrothos gave off a frustrated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. In the back of his mind, a little, annoying voice questioned whether his frustration over her inability to accept help stemmed from the knowledge that he himself was not any damn better at accepting help when it was offered; it was like looking into a fucking mirror and he couldn't say that he liked what he saw. But of course, he would never admit to such a similarity, and instead pushed the thought far away into the back of his mind, so he could focus on his little infuriating fishmonger.

For a short moment, he actually considered putting the matter to rest, to turn around and leave it at that – if she wanted to be a stubborn brat, pouting while pretending not to lick her wounds, then that would be just as fucking fine by him! But, of course, that's not what he would let her do, nor what his manners would allow him to do – as annoying as it was to realise. He owed her a debt, and he would be damned if he allowed her to dangle that over his head in the coming days.

With another sigh, Amrothos took a decisive step forward and reached out to take her bloody hand in his' – but he really should have known better. With a hissing sound, his little fishmonger wrenched her hand out of his grip, and he wasn't sure exactly whether her instinctive reaction had been made out of pain or defiance, but at least it was some reaction, and at least now she couldn't pretend to ignore him any longer. Standing there, she was staring at him with her golden eyes wide open.

Perhaps that's what made him hesitate. Or perhaps it was the feeling of her warm blood, sticking to his three-fingered right hand like glue. Yeah, perhaps that was it. Perhaps that would also explain the lump in his throat that just wouldn't go away no matter how hard he tried to swallow it.

'Your hand. You're hurt.', he tried again, even more determined this time, to get his point across, and yet there was some strange emotion underlying his words too, but he didn't have the time to pay attention to it. However, his little fishmonger felt it nonetheless as he saw her eyes widening even more at his words – the panicked look of a person faced with too much intimacy, the look of a person faced with crossing a line that then could never be uncrossed, the look of a person who wanted nothing more than to hide from what had happened and what was happening now. And that's exactly what she did, or what she tried to do when she turned back around to her wheelbarrow and filleting knife and her pieces of dead fish – it was just that he wouldn't let her, and he could be as persistent as he could be annoying.

'Fine. Get blood all over your precious fish then – see how that'll be a best-seller.'

It was true, he probably sounded petty as fuck as he spouted those lines, and he surely looked petty as fuck too, throwing up his hands in defeat, rolling his eyes so hard he was sure to see the back of his skull at some point, but the thing was, he just couldn't care any less. He had tried it, damnit, he had tried to take the high road here and offer help but if she wanted to be a fucking idiot about it, then so fucking be it! But nobody could say that he didn't do his damnedest –

A movement to his right caught his attention then; it was a small movement, really, but it was enough to pull him out of his inner monologue of pettiness. Without turning around, without even looking at him – because, Ulmo fucking forbid!, she would ever sink so low as to acknowledge that she needed help – Myra had extended her arm, holding out her hand for him to examine. It was an unmistakable sign, although it took him a moment to be able to read it and fully appreciate it. But after blinking, once, twice, to make sure that he wasn't imagining things here, Amrothos simply shrugged and stepped over to her.

Taking her hand without much preparation or prior notice – because he was already so done with all of this by now – Amrothos could feel her twitch in his grasp and hear her hiss, and this time there was no doubt whatsoever that she had made that sound out of pain. For a moment he hesitated then. Perhaps, it hadn't been such a good idea after all to clutch her hand without warning, and with so little care at that? Curse his impatience! Seriously, had he always been this crude and awkward, or was that just a new-found talent his annoyance brought out in him? Or maybe it was her defiance that brought it out in him; the knowledge that she so stubbornly pretended not to need any help; the knowledge that in this she was more like him than he, perhaps, would have liked to admit?

Shrugging those thoughts off – because he sure as hell didn't want to dwell too much on that line of thinking – Amrothos simply turned to the task at hand and took a closer look at the wound. And if he mumbled an apology under his breath and handled her with a little more care after that – what of it? He may be more pirate than prince, but even he had some semblance of humanity left.

'The wound isn't too deep – it's probably just the blood that makes it look bad. You won't need any stitches.', he assessed with near-medical professionalism after turning her hand this way and that, determining that the wound cut didn't go all the way through and that she could still move her hand relatively freely, at least beside the occasional sensation of pain. Out of the corner of his vision he noticed with mild interest that Myra had stopped her restless flinching by now and was now more or less quietly watching what he was doing, but he didn't give it too much thought, except that at least now he could work without being disturbed. In any case, he had other things to worry about. In the back of his mind he could already hear his sister commenting on the best ways to treat the wound, although when he imagined her voice, it always sounded like a good-natured teasing.

For a pirate that's been stitching up his own sails for years, you sure should know how to stitch up a wound by now, brother mine.

Well?

That wound isn't going to mend on its own!

Or do you mean to bind it with all the dirt that's still in it?

Amri, really, the one time your affinity for liquor could come in handy, and what do you do?

Frowning, Amrothos sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to will away the happy memories of his sister, because they weren't even really memories and what might have been happy about them, only hurt all the more now because he knew that it was not real and would now never be real ever again. So, instead of losing himself in wishful memories, he forced himself to focus on what needed to be done.

Letting go of his Myra's hand, Amrothos glanced around quickly, trying to find what he was looking for, and even though he didn't find the alcohol he had hoped for (more's the pity!), he did find a flask of water and deemed it good enough for what he had in mind. His little fishmonger, of course, protested as best she could, pointing out what a waste of water it would be to use it for something like that, but he would have none of it.

'Stop your fretting, woman! The wound needs to be clean before I can dress it.', he groaned with no small amount of annoyance before he took her hand again and, unceremoniously, poured some water over it. There was a hiss and flinch from her, but other than that his little fishmonger must have wisely decided to give up any other form of resistance and instead simply chose to let him do as he liked. And that was a good thing too, because he realised that her calming down also somehow calmed him down, having his annoyance from moments ago fizzle out into a demeanour of determination.

'If it's that big of a deal, I can go to the well later on and get some more water.', he added then while he was slowly drying off the palm of her hand with his scarf, to see whether his initial assessment of the wound was correct (it was!). Well, he was dabbing the wound off carefully really, because he could feel her trembling under his touch still, though he got the feeling that it wasn't so much in reaction of a sensation of pain now. But he decided not to waste any thoughts on that, as he was more preoccupied with tearing his scarf to shreds, so as to acquire the needed cloth for bandages. He had ruined the scarf already by using it to clean her wound, so it didn't really matter if he misused it any further like that. Of course, it was quite the waste to use Haradrim silk like that, but as he didn't have any cotton or linen bandages at the ready, it was better than nothing.

However, amidst the monotone task of tearing decent strips of silk out of the scarf, amidst the sound of cloth ripping apart, it was not the task at hand that was on his mind. Out of the fringes of his vision he caught a glimpse of Myra staring at what he was doing with near unfiltered fascination – or, perhaps, she was merely fascinated by the expensive material he was currently shredding apart. After all, Haradrim silk was a luxury not very often found in the streets of Moray Trench, and to see somebody just tear it to pieces, well, that would be considered akin to a sin. So, yeah, she was staring at what he was doing – with eyes wide open, mouth slightly agape and all … and for some reason, it caught his attention. It had indeed been a long time since he had seen such unguarded curiosity on another person's face and it simply threw him with how vulnerable it made her look. The people he was used to would never allow for such vulnerability.

'So, I wanted to thank you for … for helping me earlier.', he brought himself to say then, because it was easier to take his mind off things he would rather not think about right now, and because the question from before still irked him – of why she would hide him so readily and whether she perhaps had done so because she knew exactly who he was. And if his throat felt strangely tight and he had to clear it dramatically, well, he chose not to read too much into it and he was glad that she chose to ignore it (or, perhaps, she truly had not noticed it?).

It's OK, she seemed to sign then with her right hand, with her thumb and index finger forming a circle and the other three fingers spread out in a fan-like motion, before she performed a series of other hand signs – her index finger that pointed at him, her hand that covered her eye, and then her fingers spread out wide before being retracted one by one – and he had to pay close attention to it but in the end he understood the gist of what she was trying to say.

You're a pirate after all, and I didn't think you could afford to lose any more fingers, could you now?

Flabbergasted Amrothos stood there for a moment, jaws dropping to the floor, because, Ulmo fuck him, he really should have thought of that for a possible explanation of his missing fingers before! After all, even children at their mother's breasts learned that piracy was a crime that did not go unpunished in the lands of the prince, although he doubted that said law had ever been put into practice for pirates employed by the crown, and especially not if such a pirate were the prince's own son.

But, of course, smug glee over having found yet another fantastical lie to spread about the origins of his missing fingers was not the only thing he felt in that moment. There was relief as well, and something like new-found respect, perhaps? Because she could try to hide that cheeky smile all she wanted, he had seen right through her, and he should have known that his little fishmonger would not miss this chance to tease him yet again, just as she had done before this dark episode with the guards. And perhaps that was exactly what she was trying to do here: to take his mind off things, to make that dire episode with the guards fade away – and perhaps, it was even working.

What had become clear though was the fact that he had definitely overestimated his little fishmonger's penchant for trickery. She might not have been above teasing, maybe, but deep down she was an honest soul, and a kind one at that. The kind of kind person that would hide even a stranger in all but the name (a stranger whose name she did not even know!) from the authorities, even if that stranger was a pirate, even if she seemed to have a particular distaste for pirates.

It had been so long since he had received any kindness at all.

And it had been even longer since that kindness had been unburdened by expectations of reciprocation.

But that's not exactly true, now, is it?, a voice inside him purred then, and Amrothos closed his eyes, trying to fight off the painful memories his unruly mind thought it funny to unearth just in this very moment. In his mind's eye, unbidden came the vision of a voice, much like his own, with hair as black as his and eyes as sad and grey as the sea, as sad and grey and blue as his. In his memory, the face smiled, and it cut his heart like a knife.

Shaking his head to rid his thoughts of such idle fancies, Amrothos set to the task of dressing her wound, and now that the wound was dry and clean it proved to be a fairly easy thing. Or at least, that's what he thought. However, it was not the applying of the bandages that ultimately proved to be challenging here but rather the unchecked curiosity of his little fishmonger. Because while he was binding her hand in long lines – around the thumb and across the palm, just as he had learned – he felt the sudden weird sensation of something tugging at his shirt and when he looked up he found Myra's face shockingly close to his.

For a moment, he stopped, irritated by her sheer disregard for personal space, but then he reminded himself that the situation they were currently in just did not allow for much personal space to begin with. Her eyes were wide as they regarded him – and to his dismay he realised that her brown eyes did not only glow golden when she was angry but also when she was excited, and that always proved to be a weirdly distracting sight for him – but it was only when she pointed towards their hands connected by his doings that he understood that she actually tried to compliment his work.

His little fishmonger complimenting him? Something was seriously afoot.

'My sister. She worked in the Houses of Healing, and I guess some of it must have rubbed off on me.', he explained quickly while he was already busying himself with the bandages again, and a part of him was very glad that he could focus on such a menial task again and could avoid a form of eye contact that became increasingly overwhelming for him when paired with such close proximity. But he had not taken his little fishmonger's curiosity into account, and while he had not thought about the words he was saying, reacting rather instinctively, she had also instinctively picked up on the little crumbs of information he had so foolishly let slip.

Another tug to his shirt forced him to look up again and he had already had an annoyed quip on his lip (Either you let me finish wrapping this up or we'll both end up the matching pair with missing limbs!), but, again, her golden gaze bore itself into his sea-grey eyes, and he was rendered speechless for a moment. What was it about those damn eyes that made his mask slip so easily? But no, surely it had nothing to do with her eyes – brown eyes were so boringly common, even if they happened to glow like amber every once in a while – but rather with this situation of physical closeness? Yet, surely, even something like that shouldn't get to him the way it did; he was a prince after all, a pirate: barging into other people's personal space had been a staple of his tricks of intimidation, and few enough people had ever managed to turn the tables on him like that, and most definitely not some wide-eyed, crude, infuriating, rude little –

Another tug to his shirt brought him back to the here and now then, and even though he blinked rapidly for a couple of times, as though his little fishmonger and her excessive curiosity were all but a figment of his imagination, Myra was still there – with all her wide-eyed, excessive curiosity. It took him a moment to realise that her lips were moving, but once he did, his eyes were fucking glued to them. Not that it made things any damn easier, but at least now he understood why she had interrupted him in the first place. When he saw her lips form the question for "sister?", he knew he had royally fucked up. Leave it to him and his big mouth to blurt out who he was next – title and name and all!

Idiot!

'Had. I … uh, had a sister. She's … gone now.', he added quickly then, though he was rambling more than he was really speaking here, and if, in his desperate struggle to distract himself, he accidentally made the monumentally stupid mistake of looking up, instead of looking down, to see what his hands were supposed to be doing, and he met her eyes again, well, it most certainly did not help – neither his concentration regarding the task at hand nor his tactic to get her curiosity off his back. Because rather than be content with the meagre answer he had given, his little fishmonger seemed practically spurred on to keep digging.

My mother, too, she seemed to mouth then, and the way her lips moved drew his gaze almost instinctively. Distracted like that, a part of him did wonder then, foolishly, why the hell she didn't use her hands to speak – at least then, he wouldn't be tempted to stare at her perfectly formed, fully lips – but, of course, he hadn't known her long enough to understand all the signs she was making with her hands and fingers all the time, and, currently, he was still holding on to her hand. A hand he was supposed to bind in bandages, rather than get lost in the sight of her moving lips or her amber –

The war?, her mouth formed then, and there was the most minute pressure detectable in her fingers as she responded to his hand that still held on to her, exerting a tension that was also visible in her eyes that seemed to glow all the more golden because of it. Amrothos frowned; there was a mystery here he couldn't quite understand, and while before he had bemoaned her excessive curiosity, he could sense his own curiosity spiking at that change in her. Perhaps, it was the way her hand gripped his own with a surprisingly desperate strength, or the way her amber eyes appeared to soften inexplicably at the mentioning of a lost relative. It took him a moment to realise why it got to him the way it did, or why it made his own defences flare up all the more because of it.

She pitied him.

Now, of course, a more sensitive soul might have seen her reaching out like that as nothing but a human comforting another human, and called it compassion, but he was not a sensitive soul anymore, and what might have been sensitive about him once, had been brutally trained out of him by the people the world called family. In the eyes the world had given him, her compassion could only be pity to him, and if she pitied him, then, surely, it had to be because his weaknesses could be seen. In the back of his mind, Amrothos could already hear his father scoffing in contempt and his aunt smirking with disappointing appraisal. In his guts, he could sense the mocking grin of one brother and the piercing unreadable expression of the other one. In his heart, he could see the understanding smile of the sister he had loved and lost.

'No, after. I lost her after the war.', the pirate prince answered then, after clearing his throat and closing his eyes (so as not to see the pity in hers and be reminded of other, kind eyes), and without further ado he went back to his task at hand. He knew, of course, that his response must have sounded more brusque than he might have intended to, but he couldn't change it now, even if he wanted to, as what was said could not be unsaid. And even so, perhaps it was simply for the better, to nip this in the bud and to end this thing here between them, whatever this thing here was. Caring, after all, was such a dangerous thing to do.

And so, the two of them spent the rest of the time in silence while he was finishing up dressing her wound; each left to their own brooding thoughts and memories, unwilling or incapable of sharing them at this particular point in time. It was a quiet few minutes, however, for the first time since he could remember, the silence didn't seem to bother him. Yes, for the first time, ever, there was no impulse in him egging him on to fill the dreaded silence. The pirate in him, surely, found that suspicious, but the prince in him was merely glad to have a moment of peace at long last, even if it only was but a short moment.

'That's it, that's the best I can do for now. Make sure to change the bandages daily, and keep it dry and clean.', was all he said after he had finished dressing up her wound at last, and after turning her hand this way and that a couple more times, to examine his work, he came to the conclusion that he was quite satisfied with what he had done, even if he was only layman when it came to the healing arts, and so, naturally, he let go of her hand. It was time to return to his work and to put this weird episode out of his mind entirely – the only problem was that his little fishmonger wouldn't let him.

He had already turned to go back to his task of building that damn stall, when a motion out of the corner of his eye took him by surprise, and just like that her bandaged hand took hold of the remaining three fingers on his right hand. Startled by this, he turned back around, and he had already opened his mouth, demanding to know what the hell it was she wanted now, only to close it again, without having said anything. He had forgotten how close they had been before, how little distance there actually had been between them this whole time, and that mistake would cost him dearly now as he was brutally reminded of that close proximity.

Myra was standing before him, eyes wide and pleading, speaking with more volume than her mouth, who had never uttered a word before, would have been capable of, and … he didn't know what to do. It didn't help much that her wounded hand wrapped around his three fingers with that kind of warmth and tenderness, and a surprisingly strong grip. Not that he wouldn't have been able to get out of this, if he wanted to; despite her mean looks and shrewish threats cultivated from a life spent down here in Moray Trench, he knew he could overpower his little fishmonger easily enough and pry those clinging fingers off of him. It was just … he didn't seem to want to.

I'm sorry.

It took him a moment to realise that her lips were moving, forming the words for him to read, or that her other hand, balled to a fist, was moving against her own chest in a clockwise motion, emphasising her meaning. Not that staring at her lips or her eyes (or her chest, for that matter) was helping him to concentrate on what she was trying to express in any way, but he got the gist of it, though he was immediately, instinctively, wondering what the hell she was apologising for now, before it dawned on him at last and he recalled their conversation from before, when he was dressing her wound. And just like before, all he could see was the pity in her eyes and the painful memories she stirred up – and just like before, his defences went back up again, and even though those high walls were meant to defend what was broken inside, it also made him a prisoner of his own defence mechanisms.

'Ah, yes, uh … thank you.', he stammered wildly then, quickly breaking off eye contact while he wriggled his hand out of her grasp; and after taking a step back and bringing at least a little more distance between them, Amrothos could at least breathe easier again, sure that the dangerous emotional tension from before was gone now and that the uncomfortable feelings that had clawed at him just moments ago were put to rest again. And yet, even while a part of him was certainly glad to be spared any more of this unwelcome intimacy, another part of him lamented this loss of unexpected human connection.

His hand with the three fingers was still burning from her touch.

It was so rare for anyone to reach for that hand to begin with, and for her to do so without any hesitation, it … it confused him. Usually, most people stayed clear of that hand, either politely ignoring it or haughtily turning up their nose in disgust; and those people that did look at it without disdain, well, they often fetishised it as a weird sexual kink. But no one had ever just taken his hand like that, without hesitation and without rejection, as though he were whole and human and worthy of comfort. Of course, there was one person who had regarded him with the same brave compassion before, but Amrothos refused to think about that now. Instead, he reminded himself that he had not been alone in his loss.

'Myra, I, uh … I'm sorry, too.', he mumbled then at last, deciding to put his own discomfort aside for a moment and to reach out to a friend just as she had reached out before, because if his little fishmonger could be brave enough to show her vulnerability like that and to comfort him, then, Ulmo fuck him, so could he. And yeah, it was awkward at best, but at least it was sincere, and he was sure that she could feel that sincerity too when she found his gaze again, because even though there was sadness in her smile, it was a smile nonetheless, and that at least was a true comfort.

FUN FACT #1: I got inspired to write this scene by one of my favourite AO3 tags. "First aid is foreplay ... I don't make the rules".

FUN FACT #2: Alright, our two idiots are growing closer together. Let's see where we go from here.

FUN FACT #3: It's hard work with the sign language. Actually, whenever Myra cannot express herself because she needs two hands - that's accurate.

FUN FACT #4: I love enriching the lore. Umbarian Oak. Haradrim Silk. Does it exist? Who knows! In my universe this is expensive shit! =)