She yelled too, yelled with him, in a language that was her own, but the words she yelled were for him. There didn't need to be language to understand the hurt and pain in his eyes, the well of emotion pouring forth from his lips. She wasn't louder than him, and it was an intentional thing, keeping her volume down. This was his lament to the world, and she was merely a chorus to his pain.
If there were people looking or pointing or listening, she no longer saw or heard them. Instead, she pulled the flute from her skirts and put his words to song, angry, short notes, played expertly - she was no amateur in this.