( Wet of cold water is a spidering ache, spreading paralysis. He knows the surprise of it, the tremors of trepidation a body experiences upon the encounter, as if traversing first shock, then denial, sorrow, then resignation. Lies do not wet his tongue: he will not speak any now to pretend he has not lived these hurts himself prior.

And he will lead, even in this by example, starting the pained process of stripping away his outer layers, one by one, skins peeled and carefully folded and packaged and weighed down by Bichen's scabbard. A fine deterrent from any watching thieves, until he is but flesh and bone and the single layer modesty still commands of him — daring his toes to taste the turbulent, spumed waves that spill from the river's bed, before he dips in.

It stabs, that first bite of the cold, when he walks and walks and walks and stills, and the waters prickle his ankles, claw up his knees, dance on his hips. Pain pressures and blooms, and in its wake only the relief of survival. He shivers, still. )

We must. We came bearing the scents of travel and men. ( Musk, sweat, grime. The tacit emissions that accompany a male body surrendered to performing sword forms each day. ) The nuns will not entrust us. And we must speak to their prioress.

( A pause, then his hand goes out silently, calling, coaxing. ) Come alone, or be plunged.