She watches from the sidelines, the drop at his back an abyss so close, an animal instinct grips her and she wants to leap into the cage and pull him to safety. She doesn't, of course - this isn't the contract she entered when he arrived, open-fisted and full-throated, into the hard world. No, when he came the only thing to do was hold him in his fear and astonishment, make foreign, unbidden sounds in the hopes of cushioning the blow. Which is exactly what she does now, only the sounds are a strange mix of prayer and pride as he settles into a rhythm of rising and falling and flirting with disaster at every turn. She stands there, not saving him, as the sun carves such beautiful shadows from his body she can't help but wriggle out of the steely bars of her own dread and climb, with her eyes, on his shoulders.