He tugs out a small, clean pouch from inside his robes, where he'd shoved it ten years ago, or twenty four hours prior. More, to keep it close when he'd been caught in the overnight of the citadel, when he'd been arriving at the tail end of the siege, when he'd turned back to rally the spirits lingering to allow them vent and not high vengeance on all that lived, once or twice or however many times. The jar with its beeswax cloth tied in cap emerges, and he tiredly plucks at the string until it surrenders to his coaxings, and the cloth pulls free.

"Lucky coincidence, I'd just picked up the healing salves for everyone in the citadel the night before last," he says, balancing the small pot in his palm and dipping his fingers in. "I've been worse. Right now I'm tired more than anything else."

He looks up to Sizhui's face, smiling with that exhaustion visible under his eyes. Still, he's standing, he's uninjured, and as he carefully, and somewhat fumbling sees to each of Sizhui's fingers in turn, he applies the salve, strong scented and warming with application. It's been thralled, encouraging healing and cleaning of an injury, to fight infection... not a cure all, and not instant, but a beginning.

"How're you doing? Aside from your fingers," he adds, attending to the tip of the next.