Not much had changed over the weeks in this little room. Artificial sunlight still glowed through the blinds in the window. The TV was off, as it always was, and the little table over the bed was pushed aside. Roaki had meekly, bitterly refused any sort of distraction, be it book or phone or cards. She ate scarcely, supplemented by nutrients either in the IV or through vitamins; she wasn’t quite withered, but she’d gained no weight since she’d arrived. What she did when Quinn wasn’t around was anyone’s guess, though when asked she would shrug, and insist she either slept, or just lay in silent thought. 

The anger had gone from her. All of her words were blunted, either mumbled or spoken with a softness in shocking contrast to their encounter at the duel. She didn’t’ call Quinn names anymore, didn’t insult Dahlia or Besca. Still she had not met Quinn’s eyes, and rarely did she ever offer conversation of her own will. But almost dutifully, whenever she was questioned, she answered. Even to the rest of the medical staff, who it seemed had inherited her deference to Quinn by proximity. 

She’d stopped asking to die. Perhaps Quinn saw that as a step forward, or perhaps it was simply a lack of will to move at all. 

Today, like every day, she lay with her head turned to the faux-sun. When Quinn shut the door behind her, she looked up to the ceiling in acknowledgement, before sitting up and turning her eyes to the sheets. The fraying gray curtain of hair fell over her face.

“[color=ec008c]…Hey.[/color]”