Aeotha did not care for the pain in her body, though there was a lot of it. Her wounds would be dealt with later, long after they made it back to the temple, by some less tired Priestess. Maybe when everything was done. It was enough that she was no longer bleeding, though the trail that lead down her face and to the front of her robes was still there, drying as blood would do. It would cake and crack eventually. She didn't care. The bigger worry was Skandra. When he pressed the potion into her hands and uncorked it with her teeth and pulled the cloth out of the wound. it was soaked now. Carefully she poured it into the wound. She was used this this now. How many times had she been bent over his body doing this very thing for him? She couldn't count any longer. How troublesome to be a being that could not be healed.
But then he could not be hurt directly by magic either. It was one of those cosmic trade-offs. Aeotha could be hurt by magic in ways Skandra never could, but she also could be healed completely without even a scar to show she had been wounded at all. Some kept them, Aeotha did not. It wasn't vanity. She didn't enjoy the sort of looks she would receive were she riddled with the scars of every battle she'd ever been in. Some would call her a heroine. Aeotha had no need for the titles. She hardly needed her own now. High Priestess, of what? All followers of Lorien? She didn't need it. She had been happier when things were simpler. She poured until all of it was gone and the wound was filled with it. She grimaced at the amount of blood there was on her hands as she placed the cork back into the empty potion vial, which she placed back on his chest.
She turned to one of the Priestesses who was hurrying over with a rag, it looked as though it was torn from her robe as well.
"A field kit." She ordered, the Priestess nearly jumped at being directly spoken to in such a way, Aeotha must have looked grim. Either way, the priestess was moving. The ground was littered with odd assortments of half used kits. She returned with it and Aeotha only quickly said her thanks. Before she opened it and pulled out what she needed to finish the job. She was skilled enough with a needle and thick thread. She had been forced to use this more as a girl, when she would be spent from healing quicker than she would be now. She threaded the needle, and carefully laid out some of the thread across his arm as she leaned over closer to look at her work. She didn't know what to tell him. Or what to ask him. What words could there be in this? He was probably feeling it as much as she was. Elemmire was... Elemmire had..
She didn't want to ask him why she'd done what she'd done. Would he even know? She'd attacked him. Something Aeotha could not believe, almost more than the fact that Elemmire had attacked her, attacked Fiaethe. After defending her from the drow. It didn't make any sense. The familiar pull to whisper something encouraging, to tell him he'd be alright was strong. But she did not speak. She was trying to decide how mad she was. How betrayed she felt. Yet she was here tending to him. She could have allowed another Priestess to do the work. But it would not be as good as her work. She did not trust someone else with Skandra. A silly thing. Considering they all had the same training. But she did not trust them with him.
Carefully she pressed the needle into his skin and through. She began to stitch his wound shut. It was too familiar. Being close like this. But it reminded her of another time. When she was the one getting her shoulder mended. When they'd been something else. Where it began, that distance. Which they crossed time and time again, only to fall back apart. It stung her eyes, but she ignored it and continued.
"You make everything difficult." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I wish I knew why it had to be this way."