She's so pretty.
La'an knows that, abstractly. Never truly forgets. It's in the flash of her smile, the set of her shoulders; poised, but waiting, a thread of tension that promises movement even when she's still. It's like a laugh about to burst free, a spark of knowledge, excited wonder teetering just on the cusp of being shared. It's in the way her hands move, as if it takes effort not to fly. Practised. Subconscious, almost. But effort.
She's pretty. Always. But when she wakes, that moment when her eyes blink open, cerulean flecked with softest grey, she's momentarily breathtaking.