It's not unusual to hear Avery crashing back in because of some poor decision or another, but the state of him is something to behold. The idea of taunting him for his wounds doesn't even spring to mind.
It would be a waste of all my hard work if he were to die, he's finding himself thinking less and less lately. If his heart still existed, it might pound anxiously in his chest; the gap where it once was aches regardless.
He hates that he understands this feeling. Hates it's for him, of all people. If he were ever to say it out loud, it would taste like ash and bitterness in his mouth, he thinks.
He offers no comforting words, though part of him wants to. (Part of him holds onto the hazy memories of him chiding his lord, already once burned but still willing to extend his care regardless. Grips them tightly, not wanting them to be replaced with anything else.)
He can't heal, but he knows what to do with injuries. He begins to clean off the blood, close all those open wounds he's received with the touch of searing heat, one by one. Pulling the bolts first and then closing the injuries, so more poison doesn't feed into his blood.
He's not tender with him, but in adherence to the pain he must be feeling, he keeps each burst of heat as brief as possible. The poison is more difficult, but he suspects it will come down to his own skill at antidotes, and the other man's will to live.
"Do your best to stay awake," he says, tersely. "I'll be much displeased if you die and waste my efforts."
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It would be a waste of all my hard work if he were to die, he's finding himself thinking less and less lately. If his heart still existed, it might pound anxiously in his chest; the gap where it once was aches regardless.
He hates that he understands this feeling. Hates it's for him, of all people. If he were ever to say it out loud, it would taste like ash and bitterness in his mouth, he thinks.
He offers no comforting words, though part of him wants to. (Part of him holds onto the hazy memories of him chiding his lord, already once burned but still willing to extend his care regardless. Grips them tightly, not wanting them to be replaced with anything else.)
He can't heal, but he knows what to do with injuries. He begins to clean off the blood, close all those open wounds he's received with the touch of searing heat, one by one. Pulling the bolts first and then closing the injuries, so more poison doesn't feed into his blood.
He's not tender with him, but in adherence to the pain he must be feeling, he keeps each burst of heat as brief as possible. The poison is more difficult, but he suspects it will come down to his own skill at antidotes, and the other man's will to live.
"Do your best to stay awake," he says, tersely. "I'll be much displeased if you die and waste my efforts."