"Don't cry. I'm just a little cold..." Morgan barely whispers in some attempt to soothe.
...Just a little cold.
He's just a little cold, but Robin is BURNING.
Her face is warm as ducts fail to comply with one simple little request. Droplets fall from the curve of her chin onto doubled up cloaks wrapped around her son. Morgan's collar catches her tears, while sleeves and leather around his waist seep through from the inside with dark crimson. A valmese swordsman had lunged right through his casting and sliced open his side. That man is now missing an arm as well as any breath in his lungs.
Anyone would be a little cold when losing so much blood.
Her hands are still hot, begging for better revenge. Her head howls with storms of steam which tell her to continue the hunt, to protect against the rest of the coming units until the healer finds where they are now hidden. ( If it will even help. If it will even be in time. ) But right now, she cups his paling cheeks, and brings their foreheads together, and contains anger to try and share warmth. He is being so brave in the face of so much pain, trying to convince her it will be okay, and she can't even return the favor. A frantic heart gives her away, and makes her a coward which can't bear to listen or to leave him like this.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Not with his sunshine smile fading to dusky grey and leaving him chilled against the shadows of bushes and boulders. There's no time to start a real fire, but she lays out a tome next to him and strikes its pages ablaze.
He is right, as children usually are, and because she taught him well. Now is not the time for futile crying. The best she can do is suck it up and cut a path for reinforcements, and keep them from being hurt along the way.
Now is the time to dry her eyes and purse her lips, and draw a line. Now is the time keep killing in an attempt to assuage death before he dares decide to cross it