The young man resumes washing her wounds, dabbing at her split lip. He takes her hand carefully in his own and runs the wet cloth over her chafed, broken skin. At first she hisses in pain, but after a moment, the cool water provides relief. Faramund gives her some in a cup to drink and she wolfs it down, famished. He brings her another, but she refuses it, afraid of throwing the first one up.

When Faramund looks at her, she is embarrassed. She knows they are from different worlds and that she smells like piss and sweat and blood. But the young man pays no mind to such things, only the task at hand. Petra watches his eyelashes flutter as he wrings the rag out over the bowl. They are made near translucent by the brightness from the window.