"No," she blurts, more sharply than she'd intended. Neither one of them is falling. But she shouldn't have snapped, and she lets out a little huff of self-recrimination before sitting down beside him. "Sorry. I'd just... rather neither of us died to get out of here." That's all that little outburst was about. Right.
Greta takes the shirt and turns it over between her hands until she has it by the bottom hem, avoiding the bloody sleeve. "I suppose I could do that," she allows, though that still leaves the question of how to wake herself up without drowning herself in the river or asking the Balladeer to kindly bash her upside the head with a rock.
For the moment, she has a different sort of experiment in mind. "Right," she says, eyeing the shirt critically. "Close your eyes." This is still his dream, and she's guessing it won't work if he's watching and doesn't expect it to. But if she's got the shirt, maybe she can change it. If she just concentrates very hard, and believes she can do it...
Greta shuts her own eyes and listens to the ambient sounds of the forest. She could almost believe herself to be at home, taking her own washing off the line: crisp and clean, stains removed and tears all mended. Basket by her feet. She tries to picture it as clearly as she can... and then she gives the shirt in her hands a single, brisk flap, the cloth snapping tidily.
Cracking open first one eye, then the other, Greta checks the shirt. It's clean. A closer examination of the sleeve reveals a neat row of stitches. "Look," she says, giving the Balladeer a nudge and grinning. "I fixed it!"
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Greta takes the shirt and turns it over between her hands until she has it by the bottom hem, avoiding the bloody sleeve. "I suppose I could do that," she allows, though that still leaves the question of how to wake herself up without drowning herself in the river or asking the Balladeer to kindly bash her upside the head with a rock.
For the moment, she has a different sort of experiment in mind. "Right," she says, eyeing the shirt critically. "Close your eyes." This is still his dream, and she's guessing it won't work if he's watching and doesn't expect it to. But if she's got the shirt, maybe she can change it. If she just concentrates very hard, and believes she can do it...
Greta shuts her own eyes and listens to the ambient sounds of the forest. She could almost believe herself to be at home, taking her own washing off the line: crisp and clean, stains removed and tears all mended. Basket by her feet. She tries to picture it as clearly as she can... and then she gives the shirt in her hands a single, brisk flap, the cloth snapping tidily.
Cracking open first one eye, then the other, Greta checks the shirt. It's clean. A closer examination of the sleeve reveals a neat row of stitches. "Look," she says, giving the Balladeer a nudge and grinning. "I fixed it!"