He doesn't quite respond to that first question, but the nickname that he hasn't heard for months catches his attention -- words spoken in a familiar voice, the bright presence nearby of a mind he's well-used to by now, dragging Archeval back to the world around him. His gloved hand closes automatically around whatever was just thrust into it -- a... bauble of some kind?... He doesn't feel a sense of threat from it at least, and his notice of it begins and ends there, simply wrapping fingers around it with blood scraping against the edges of the metal.

"I... What?... Eleven?..."

He blinks a few times, reaches up to rub a dirtied hand against his face. Ah. He's... He's not out amid the corpses anymore. There's no ominous presence looming in front of him -- no, just inside him now, exhausted itself and seething quietly -- wait, the lightsaber, where is his lightsaber?--

Eyes popping wide, he feels a little frantically down at his waist and-- oh, stars be thanked, somehow even in this haze of half-consciousness he's replaced it back where it should be. His sudden jerk of motion jostles El's ministrations for a moment, and he stares a little blankly over at the other's hands, at the red-stained cloth in Eleven's grip.

"--oh. I'm still bleeding," he mumbles absently, a little lightheadedly. Shock? Is this shock?... Half-aware medic's instinct starts to try to catalog his own symptoms automatically, but sheer weariness uselessly scatters his thoughts. He's probably just exhausted. Exhausted, still bleeding. Automatically, the Force flickers and dies on his fingertips. His focus isn't there, the long hours and his new passenger taking their heavy toll.

Eleven is trying to take care of it. He feels a little guilty for that, but stills himself for now, attempting to help things go quicker. He's no use to anyone like this.

"...we took him," he goes on after a second. Even his lips feel heavy to move.

"Showed his... rotting face out there. We took him down. Unhalad."