She shuffles the last of the steps. There's a thought there, in a moment, that she needs to get this off of her, off him, before they show themselves to another. Put her skin back her, her face, the things she must be for others. The heavy gold she will clean and clean again in the memories of why she wears it, the mark she paints no longer with vermillion, but red stained clay.

"Is that why you think I should stand to be voted upon?" Her hand stays on his shoulder, stumbling the steps, feet dragging through the clotted dust, staining her boots. "We were always... always just weapons. For someone else to use."

The sun outside is bright, clear. Light is so unforgiving, and she doesn't turn into it. She can't afford weakness, rather where her hand is set against his shoulder for support, she pulls him back, turning to face him, her slippery bloody fingers wandering as she turned to face him. Turned him back to her, where he makes such an easy shield. Whether it's to block light or the hissing joking words they exchange.

You don't deserve to die.

She swallows, trying to force it up, a gentle brush as she traces with worn fingertips to the line of his jaw. So, so very still, the blood that is red on her lips. "You... you are a relief to me." He doesn't look at her like that, he never has. "I never know what to do with it."