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."
"Hard to--" he hisses in pain as another wound is cauterized, hazily wondering just how many scars he's going to have when all of this is over, "--sleep when you're burning me."
He tries to keep his breathing even, but it shudders and quakes, his eyelids heavy despite what he'd just said to Ekkehardt.
"Are you suggesting I have skeleton envy? Now you're just being ridiculous."
He goes for the most common antidote he knows, and the most concentrated dose he can pull together on such short notice. Later doses will be less intense by necessity; he has to conserve ingredients, and even with supernatural resilience it's an...unpleasant sensation to bear, in higher concentrations.
He doesn't ask Avery drink when he's finished; he simply props him up, to make it harder for him to fall asleep, and lets natural reflex do most of the work, holding the flask to his lips and forcing him to drink. Avery is badly injured; he doesn't trust that the man won't pass out before he finishes the dose.
(And maybe he just really, really does want him to live, which is why he's going to such pains to even treat him and not letting him wither on the floor. But he's not terribly nice about it.)
"You'll need to finish it to give you the best chance of survival," he says, by way of something resembling an apology. "No matter how terrible it feels, I guarantee you that dying by poison is far worse."
It's the foulest thing he's ever tasted, and then it lights up a burning trail from the back of his throat all the way to his stomach. He gags, body attempting to eject the awful substance out of him, but the fluid just keeps coming and coming, leaving him groaning when that last drops finally pass his lips.
"Not skeleton envy now," he croaks out, his stomach churning in protest, but never coming close to giving up its contents. "Now it's poison envy."
Or something. The world's a bit fuzzy, and even his words seem to slip right out of his mind as if through a sieve.
"I've been poisoned," he replies, his voice curt. "I assure you I'm not jealous about your position there, either."
Rather than try to help him off the floor, he picks Avery up, taking care not to jostle his wounds. He considers where he should take his newest patient before he settles on just bringing him to his own room; perhaps he'll draw strength from familiar surroundings.
He says little as he settles him in bed; all he can do is wait for the antidote to do its work. (Or for him to die, perhaps, come back as something else if he's able or simply leave the world altogether. Either option seems likely, with the amount of poison in his veins.)
As an afterthought, he arranges the pillows and blankets to make him more comfortable. He thinks he'll need the support.
"S'not my room," Avery observes, but doesn't seem to mind at all, nor be in any position to. The bed is soft, would be comfortable were it not for the ceaseless nausea and the pain that's sunken into the very marrow of his bones.
He shivers, sweat beading on his brow. Somewhere deep down, he realizes he hasn't been this close to death since that moment in the dungeons.
"I'm--" About to go back out and start making your medicine again, he almost says, because (when he finds everything too troubling to deal with, he buries himself in work, and this is the only work he can do that makes him feel like he has any control over the situation) he's a busy person, after all.
"...If you insist, I suppose I can spare some time," are the words that come out of his mouth, reluctant but honest. He sits, gingerly, beside him, and wonders how he ever got into this position in the first place.
(If he killed him now, the hero would probably never register it at all. Some residual resentment suggests he could. The rest of him rejects it, for reasons that he--refuses to acknowledge. That would make it real as if it's not already, the rest of his thoughts scold him, scorn him for.
He is a fool, as ever. Twice burned, now, and yet, still...)
There's a part of him, even in his dazed state, that doesn't believe that Ekkehardt will do it. The man's all business, doesn't even seem to like him all that much (which is understandable, Avery supposes).
But he agrees, gruff, reluctant, distant, but affirmative nonetheless, and Avery grants him a weak, thankful little smile in return.
"If you continue to be a fool, then you'll continue to accumulate debt," he says, and then, after a pause, "if I kept track of such things."
He stopped counting some time ago. He's found it easier not to.
(He is surprised, deep inside himself, at the pain he feels when Avery smiles at him. It's not any good; simply more bitterness. How utterly betrayed by anything else the hero must be, to take comfort from this - what little allowance he can make.)
"You'll be pleased to know that I do not, however, so you owe me nothing. I'm not doing this because I expect a reward."
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no subject
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."
no subject
He tries to keep his breathing even, but it shudders and quakes, his eyelids heavy despite what he'd just said to Ekkehardt.
"You just want to be the only skeleton."
no subject
He goes for the most common antidote he knows, and the most concentrated dose he can pull together on such short notice. Later doses will be less intense by necessity; he has to conserve ingredients, and even with supernatural resilience it's an...unpleasant sensation to bear, in higher concentrations.
He doesn't ask Avery drink when he's finished; he simply props him up, to make it harder for him to fall asleep, and lets natural reflex do most of the work, holding the flask to his lips and forcing him to drink. Avery is badly injured; he doesn't trust that the man won't pass out before he finishes the dose.
(And maybe he just really, really does want him to live, which is why he's going to such pains to even treat him and not letting him wither on the floor. But he's not terribly nice about it.)
"You'll need to finish it to give you the best chance of survival," he says, by way of something resembling an apology. "No matter how terrible it feels, I guarantee you that dying by poison is far worse."
no subject
"Not skeleton envy now," he croaks out, his stomach churning in protest, but never coming close to giving up its contents. "Now it's poison envy."
Or something. The world's a bit fuzzy, and even his words seem to slip right out of his mind as if through a sieve.
no subject
Rather than try to help him off the floor, he picks Avery up, taking care not to jostle his wounds. He considers where he should take his newest patient before he settles on just bringing him to his own room; perhaps he'll draw strength from familiar surroundings.
He says little as he settles him in bed; all he can do is wait for the antidote to do its work. (Or for him to die, perhaps, come back as something else if he's able or simply leave the world altogether. Either option seems likely, with the amount of poison in his veins.)
As an afterthought, he arranges the pillows and blankets to make him more comfortable. He thinks he'll need the support.
no subject
He shivers, sweat beading on his brow. Somewhere deep down, he realizes he hasn't been this close to death since that moment in the dungeons.
"Hey... Stay here."
no subject
"...If you insist, I suppose I can spare some time," are the words that come out of his mouth, reluctant but honest. He sits, gingerly, beside him, and wonders how he ever got into this position in the first place.
(If he killed him now, the hero would probably never register it at all. Some residual resentment suggests he could. The rest of him rejects it, for reasons that he--refuses to acknowledge. That would make it real as if it's not already, the rest of his thoughts scold him, scorn him for.
He is a fool, as ever. Twice burned, now, and yet, still...)
no subject
But he agrees, gruff, reluctant, distant, but affirmative nonetheless, and Avery grants him a weak, thankful little smile in return.
"Maybe I'll stop owing you one day."
no subject
He stopped counting some time ago. He's found it easier not to.
(He is surprised, deep inside himself, at the pain he feels when Avery smiles at him. It's not any good; simply more bitterness. How utterly betrayed by anything else the hero must be, to take comfort from this - what little allowance he can make.)
"You'll be pleased to know that I do not, however, so you owe me nothing. I'm not doing this because I expect a reward."