He’s sore.

Of course he is. He’s collected more hurts in the past few days than he has in a long while—and coming from him, that’s saying something. Fallen off a horse, gone down a goddamn ravine, and skewered himself on his own bolt in the process. That’s not factoring in the scrapes and bruises he’s gotten throughout, the goddamn bullet he took when he finally hauled himself back.

The day’s boring, laid up and resting. He’s tired, knows he needs the rest, but all he’s been getting is sleep the past day. Even if he’s sore, if he feels nausea clog his gullet if he tries to get up for something minor, but he’s itching to get something done.

He spends the afternoon letting the sun drag past, mindlessly poking holes in the mesh with his bolt tips; shameful reminders of him landing on his own damn bolt, but he brushes the thoughts away.