A tired pall mutes the stubborness of his determination, but his eyes don't waver. The rushed job that makes up his tied back and steadily escaping bangs lends him a somewhat frazzled appearance, but he looks otherwise well, having suffered little in terms of injuries. Those he had acquired were swiftly healed under his protector's care.

Eleven cuts his magic just as Archeval's own breathing eases and nods. The wristorative can slowly take care of the rest. Archeval doesn't look as though he'll be going too far on his own.

"Yes," he says, drawing back with a steadying breath. Plucking up the bloodied cloth, Eleven carefully pushes himself to his feet and steps away from Archeval to rinse and towel off the blood on his hands. He returns a span of moments later with a cup of clean water, then again with a wafer of hardtack.

Eleven settles back on the floor to rest while he has the chance. He's fast approaching his limit.

"I'm glad you're okay."