Estinien makes a uncharacteristic squeak when the washcloth goes over his ears, but he's gotten the worst of his resistance fucked out of him and reluctantly lets himself be scrubbed. Better than cold water and a thick-hair brush. And the company is far more pleasant.

"I wasn't exactly reading all the missives from outside," he grumbled. "It wasn't relevant." The brief tension slides from his shoulders, limbs going slack as the heat sinks into them. Oh. Oh this is bliss of another sort, slow and quiet, not fast and joyful, but bliss all the same.