Work Text:
It's the knives that she noticed first.
Before the cold eyes, before the calloused fingers, before the fact that all her smiles were the same, likely practiced within a period of a week years ago because the owner of the face decided she wanted to pass as a person, instead of what she was, which was something almost the same, but not quite.
What Lohse is or isn't when she wakes up is usually up to a coin toss.
The first time was when Sebille had them against her throat. She had had a situation, as Ifan had taken to referring her complete loss of control and identity, and he did it in such an uncharacteristically calm way, she wanted to burn him. No one had noticed it starting that one time, and she could do nothing to warn them because it was a situation, and before they knew it, she was setting fire to Ifan's cloak, with him in it.
Ifan had jumped out of it in a spry-enough fashion, and Fane had leaped to assist him, and if it hadn't been for Sebille, who knows what else Lohse-or-whoever would have burned. But Sebille had been there, with a knife at the ready, pressed hard enough into her throat to let whoever in Lohse know she meant it, and then harder still.
That this made Lohse feel taken care of, could possibly be understood, given the circumstances.
That this made Lohse wet, well, that was another thing entirely.