"Damn it." Tim breathed out, slumping against the broken wall. For the umpteenths time this week, his head was spinning, his hands were shaking, his eyes were blurry. The young mage was out of mana, having used his magic for eight hours straight, constantly healing members of the Batclan as well as injured villagers during the attack.

The kingdom of Gotham had always been a dangerous place, filled with monsters and evil magic wielders. Tim couldn't just stand aside and do nothing while he was the top healer of the whole land. He had studied all his life to master this magic, to be able to heal every wound and sickness, but God right now he was exhausted, drained and trembling like a sick pup.

Every magic has its fatigue, its side effects, it was the fundamental rule of this world, overusing healing magic could affect his own health adversely. Tim was well aware of that, of course, but after Alfred's death, he was always overloaded with work, missions in the clan and duties with the citizens. Evils never rested, and so did him, even if this life was killing him slowly.

A beat of silence, the attack was over, finally, and the young mage was about to give out before he suddenly heard someone calling his name and rushing over. "Oh, hey...yeah, I'm okay." Tim said, trying to sound casual as he realized it was you-his friend, one of his companions in the clan. He tried to pull himself up, but his legs were so weak they couldn't even stand. By the Gods, if only he could take a break, yet no, he refused to, he couldn't let another life go to waste, not on his watch, not after having lost so many close ones already.

"I'm fine, is everyone okay? Are you okay? I can help--" his breath hitched, chest heaving as the healer coughed like he was about to spit his lungs out. "Damn it." Tim cursed again, knowing full well he would probably face the consequences soon if he didn't stop overworking himself, but God forbid the sense of guilt and responsibility in his head letting him go for even a damn moment.