For days he flatly hid, leaning on his closest friends, so frightened and miserable he actually accepted help without quite realizing it. Even moving between the nearby cabins, bouncing from Xie Lian to Crozier and back, he made sure the hall was empty, first. He avoided his own door like it was actively on fire, that perfect recreation of the door to the mortuary now bolted and secured, but still an ominous threat to any ability to hold himself together. Gradually, he began to accept the occasional escort. The gym, mostly, and the greenhouse to take up some measure of his work again.

Being on high alert every moment is horribly wearing. He had to begin to relax or he'd have worn himself to pieces. Under supervision, he's been eating and resting better than he has since he arrived on the barge, and if anything looks to be in better shape than he did in the dining hall that first day. Though his robes are still a tattered mess, all his mending efforts being quite overwhelmed by time. And the frequency with which he's bled out on them. He's without a sword, though the elegant horsetail whisk rests in his sash like always. His hair is just a little lopsided, which is quite unlike him. It's held up with a bit of string instead of ribbons.

He steps out of Crozier's room at the end of the hall. He's made a few safe, successful escapes. It's quiet. He'll just slip to the gym, where there's always somebody about. Just drill with a staff for a few hours. It'll do his nerves some good.