"Someone else's deathbed isn't the place to be selfish. And I'm not doing anything to stay out of the healers' way. I'm not in their way." The sharp way she'd started subsides and she curls her fist around the bandage, tight enough her knuckles whiten, before relaxing her grip (making herself relax her grip) and putting it in his hand. "No one's in their way, in there," she says, quieter.

"He's past that. I'm just - I'm here, anyway, and I need something to do, and it might as well be something useful."

Because if she just sits or walks or waits--

she'll go mad, she needs this, the busy-work in the times she isn't actively attending him.