[ It feels like a poultice on a wound. Because poultices hurt like hell when they're first put on, stinging and throbbing and agonizing, and this is, too. Or perhaps it's not a poultice, perhaps that's not right - perhaps, more accurately, it's a surgery, with Bastien examining those wounds, holding them up to the light and finding all the little bits of shrapnel that need pulling out.

But it's healing. It won't cure anything; infection could still set in quite easily. But his regard maybe makes it easier. Him and Alexandrie both just - they cut away things that fester. Or perhaps point out healthy flesh that he'd mistaken as gangrenous.

Maker, no, he's not a poet. Bad metaphors, all of them. ]

You are - [ He presses those very fingers against Bastien's chest. His heart. ] It is miraculous, I think, that you were born with eyes this keen, and trained to use them to see human weaknesses, and yet you turn them instead to strengths. [ A slight pause as he looks for the words. ] You've remained kind. A hero's labor.