Brigitte typically carries herself with so much purpose, lifting others up, a stalwart source of strength and comfort. So when she runs dry, she runs dry. She’s so accustomed to giving strength to others that she forgets, sometimes, how to keep some of it back. And it’s been inexpressibly hard without her usual support network by her side: no old friend to laugh over familiar jokes with, to lie awake gossiping together, the warmth of her mother pressing a kiss to her forehead, Reinhardt’s hand on her shoulderblades. Instead: a lonely inn bed, listening to the murmur of voices and half-pretending they’re her family.

It wears her down, sometimes.

So the woman accepts Nida’s hand, and after a moment, feels the strange warmth flow into her. Confidence. Motivation. A sense of you can do it. A belief in oneself.

“You know, that isn’t half-bad,” she says as she lets go, marveling and looking down at her hand, the white band on his.