As was often the case with medical reports, written by people with precious little experience in breaking the news gently, there wasn't much that had been left to his imagination when it came to the sheer magnitude of his injuries. Though his recovery had been expedient – far more than his own had been – the wounds were unlikely to be so easily forgotten. Alcuin could see it in the shadows about his eyes, the loss of healthy tissue around his middle, and the peculiar way he'd taken to carrying himself. It was at once disturbingly antithetical to what he had come to expect and all too familiar. He busied himself with shutting the living room window and drawing the curtains, silently unnerved by his own feelings on the matter.
“I'd have done the same,” Alcuin murmured, gathering up the spare outfit in his arms only to press it to his chest like it could somehow protect him from himself. It was easier than he had thought it might be at the time, to sink a blade so deep he didn't think he'd ever see the tip again. He felt sick when he discovered otherwise, but it hadn't been enough to stop him at the time. It might as well have been his blade that undid his loyal escort that evening, too, for what little he'd died for in the end. It was astonishing how many people had perished because of him and his fool for a heart. “Guy was a good man,” he whispered, his voice straining over the lump in his throat. “They all were.”
“So are you.” Alcuin held out the spare outfit in exchange for the sodden heap of clothing in his hands.