"I know, Lancelot," Faolan counters, in response to what little chiding the other man has done, and his voice is sharper somewhat than it should be. Maybe because he's feeling guilty, and the other man's concern is just making it worse. He glances away, down at the floor in front of him. "I know," he says again, quieter this time. "It was stupid. I wasn't thinking straight, I just. I didn't want another hospital trip. More stitches. I'd heard about what she could do and thought it might spare me, I don't know."

He takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "She did some basic first aid. But she wasn't a doctor. She's a witch. I don't know whether her spells or the thread she used, whether any of that was for clearing out infection. She didn't explain, I didn't ask. I got the hell out of there as soon as I could. I..." Why does he still feel like he should be apologizing, though.

"There are more scratches," he says, gesturing over his shoulder with his other arm. "They weren't as bad, so I didn't say anything while I was there. Besides. If anything were infected I'd know by now..."