It's unusual, but not unfamiliar. A little ticklish. Arche's apprentice hasn't picked up any healing arts from him, steeped in the Dark Side as his tradition is, but still El's power reminds him a little of Ashara in her better moments. The compassion in it, or -- perhaps that's fondness that he's picking up on. But that's too much to wrestle with right now. Simple things first. He slowly takes stock of himself, breathing still heavy but easing. That pain in his side that he'd mostly stopped registering, now dulled down and soothed. Limbs sluggish, skin scraped, a vague ache suffusing him everywhere. His battle robes have shielded him from most of the worst of the onslaught, but the mending job will be awful, some part of him absently reflects. Some of it may be beyond the scant tools available on this backwater world.

"Nothing...nothing of consequence," he sighs out at last. A faint throb has started up behind his temples. Necessary as it might have been, he's demanded far too much of himself and the Force today.

"...do we have water?..."

I knew you would.

The praise lingers with him for a little while after it's spoken, strange and uncomfortable like an ill-fitting glove. He thinks to look El in the face then, lightheadedly assessing the other's color, the steadiness of his gaze. Hopefully Arche isn't the last straw that pushes Eleven beyond his endurance.