"Aren't you supposed to be this divine-like being?" Telyra shook her head as she wrung out the rag, water and blood spilling over her fingers and into the already-stained bowl. "How do you keep getting your ass kicked?"

Miraak huffed before it broke into a cough. "I believe I am due some sympathy," he retorted. He was sat on a crate that appeared too flimsy for his weight but only creaked if he moved; his long torso made her feel short even as she stood over him. "I am still growing accustomed to my body. And I do not keep 'getting my ass kicked.'" The last was said with the faintest hint of insult.

With another shake of her head, Telyra dabbed at a particularly nasty gash along his hairline. The bleeding wouldn't let up, and, while she hadn't wound up anywhere near as damaged as him, her magicka was depleted; he'd be receiving no poorly healed scars from her this time.

"All that work to get you out," she muttered, "just to have you knock on Death's door anyway." She smiled as she spoke.

Pulling away, her back straightened with a great deal of protest after having been hunched over for too long. She watched as Miraak's eyes followed her movements, never leaving her face; a curious look set upon his own.

"What is it?" she asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

He blinked a few times and shook his head, wincing at the motion. "Nothing," he replied. "Feeling rather lightheaded."

"Considering all the blood loss," she said, stretching and groaning, "I'm not surprised." She knelt in front of him, grabbing the rag once more. Her fingers pushed back his hair, careful not to jab the wound; the red was already growing dark, his locks crunching slightly under her touch. "You need a bath."

"Is that a rather unsubtle way of telling me I smell?" His head tilted down as he stared at her once more. "I pride myself on excellent hygiene."

Her eyes flitted to his before returning to his injury; heat settled in her face. He didn't smell particularly bad, though he didn't exactly smell good; the sweat and copper were overwhelming, as was expected, along with the usual scent of magic: ozone and embers; but beneath was a lingering whisper of pine. She inhaled deeply and let her knees rest against the stone floor.

"Can you hold that?" She nodded toward her hand against his head.

He hesitated. Telyra leaned back and looked at the hand pressed against his torso; it was stiff, flexed as though he were applying pressure. Her gaze moved to his; he looked down.

"Move your hand," she ordered.

His eyes returned to hers, but he didn't move.

Her jaw clenched and she grabbed his wrist; slowly, she pulled it away, revealing blood-soaked cloth.

"Shit, Miraak," she hissed. "Why-"

"It is nothing."

"It's not 'nothing,'" she said. After folding up the rag and finding a slightly less stained patch, she pressed it against his stomach.

He hissed as she dabbed at the area in an attempt to clear enough blood to gauge the damage. Each press made him flinch further away from her.

"Would you just-" Her hand dug into his thigh. "Hold still."

His body stiffened, eyes wide; even in the dark, she could see the blues of his iris disappearing into his pupils.

"Okay," he mumbled, unblinking.

Returning his stare, her fingers lifted from his leg, and she absent-mindedly wiped the sweat forming on her upper lip with the back of her hand. Her gaze dropped back to his torso; still bleeding, of course, as was his head. So much blood. How could someone bleed so much without losing consciousness? she wondered.

As she resumed cleaning his injury, his fingers slipped under her chin, and his thumb ran over her lips. She stilled and glanced at him.

"You have blood…" he muttered.

Without thought, her head naturally followed his hand, leaning toward him as he slowly attempted to pull away; he froze a moment, their position seeming to register behind his eyes. Her spine straightened, bringing her closer to the breath seeking escape from his lungs. Again, the pad of his thumb dragged across her lip, sticky now with the drying blood she'd unknowingly put there.

His fingers brushed against her skin, settling against her neck, her pulse racing beneath his index. Lips parting as she sucked in a breath, she felt heat return to her face, spilling from his touch and reaching each limb, coiling in her stomach.

Eyes bouncing between his, the storm of blue now a mere drizzle around an onyx sea; his flushed skin radiating and mixing with her own warmth.

"Thank you," he breathed as he drew her even closer.

The tip of his nose grazed hers as they began to tilt, eyelids growing heavy under the weight of the unspoken desire they shared.

His lips just barely skimming hers as he whispered once more, "Thank you."