[He can see it for the deflection it is, at least somewhat-- his mind is too rattled, too off-centered to be able to approach this with his usual diplomacy, and his brain is fighting against that headache, against that endless string of 'your fault's.]
[And his mind keeps circling the thought-- it makes sense that his hands are bloody. Because of the arena. But it doesn't make sense for Keith's to be. He wasn't in the arena. It makes sense that his hands are bloody. Because of the arena--]
[What his addled mind settles on, then, is a jump in logic only possible because he's so tense, so on edge, his hands shaking from where they're holding Keith's. No.]
Sometimes if you stop moving, they can't see you. Bad eyesight. Everyone is bigger than us so you have to rely on speed, use their weight against them. Find a weapon as soon as you can. Don't hesitate. Keith-- [He stumbles his way through whatever advice he's clung to when fighting during that year and throws it out towards him, all jumbled together.]
I won't-- I won't let anything happen to you. [He'll protect you. He'll find some way.]