Alexa sits against the wall, almost motionless, and lets the sheep's clever fingers do their work.

Honestly, it's amazing how deft his motions are. She's seen him in the kitchen, preparing meals, and always he makes it seem so simple. His knifework is impeccable, flowing, like an extension of his arm, no matter what technique is called for. It's almost like the universe is mocking her. Put a spear in her hands and tell her to pin it to a target from fifty yards, and she'll split a hair on the bullseye. But give her a knife and an onion, and--well, the less said about that dinner, the better.

It must be nice to be so sure of yourself. So able to focus, to know exactly what you're supposed to be, what role you need to fill. Is it that wrong to wish to trade places? To be soft, to know what to say, to know how to help? To spend all your time making other people happy with food, wise words, and friendship?

She winces as the chisel hits an unexpected snag, and does her best to keep her face turned away from him. He doesn't need to see this. It's not important. It's a function of existence, is repair. Ideally, she'd have been able to pick up the chunks that got chipped off so they could be cemented back in place, but in the mean time, sandpaper and chisel will have to just prepare a rough surface for the bronze and keep more stone from chipping loose.

But of course, they could never swap. She could never force him to take her position. It wouldn't be fair to him.