His lips move without him.
“Borusa, room, clothes...”
He slides to the edge of the bed.
Then he looks over, and...
The helmeted guard, a woman, sticks out a hand and presses him back into place upright, propping his wobbly frame easily as though he were a fancy layer cake in a spring form pan.
“Now, now, Lord Borusa told me to keep you still as much as possible, and she strictly forbid any bending over... remember you’re not strong... like me,” the brown-haired female guard’s young, smoky voice mutters from the helmet as she bends to rummage in a plain chest stained a rich, dark cherry, “... I’ll find you something decent- you just hold tight.”