"Calf," he answered distractedly, or thought he had. It was hard to tell, frankly, with his pulse in his ears and his head so faint and foggy. He tried to breathe but it was an effort--something he found he had a great deal of trouble managing.

"Up?" He repeated distantly, unaware that time had passed or that she had spread anything across the cut in his stomach. He cracks an eye at her and the golden curls floating above him, against the radiant light that bounced through the canvas tent, seem almost ethereal. He was going to die...but at least he got to stare at someone lovely while he did.

His smile is soft and fond and desperate, but he tries, oh how he tries, to do as she asks.