[He can't explain the strangest spark of... fear, almost (and something else he can't quite identify, something that makes his chest ache and throat constrict painfully), that he feels at those words-- but he shakes it off quickly, instead sighing, taking off the scarf he is wearing and moving closer to wrap it around the wound, being as careful as possible - half-expecting to be pushed away at any second... trying to think of a way for him to use his magic to heal him, without him realising who-- what-- he is.]
[...] You can't know that. [Please, stop talking and rest.] No one can decide how long they live... not by will alone.