The memory is the same for her. She remembers the grime ground into the creases of his face, the filth that clung to every gather of his clothing. She remembers the smell of burnt flesh from whatever cauterized his wound. She remembers the gash on the back of his hand and the way she had to move so slowly and carefully, so he wouldn't cringe away from her. She remembers holding him as he wept, though to this day she does not know if it was from grief or some sense of respite.

She steadies him, lifts him as best she can, trying to be mindful of his tender skin. When he relaxes back, she lingers for a moment, and only pulls back when she has to.

"Here. Coffee will help." She sits on the edge of the bed so she can hold the mug for him to drink.

They've come so far, the two of them. Silently, she mutters a prayer of thanks to the Goddess for his safe return.