The worst part about coming through a country known for being damp, then trundling up a freezing mountain when you've got wounds to your chest is means a cough gets to settle in your chest, and he tries to croak a greeting only to start. Stars dance along the edges of his vision, blood roaring in his ears before he manages to summon up some battle discipline. Deep breathing works anywhere, though usually he doesn't have that wheeze in the back of his throat.

He's had worse, just not in front of so many people.

"Like shite if 'm honest," he groans, trying to shift up on his elbows to avoid the ache building low in his back. It'd be a grand thing to sit up. "Better for seeing a pretty face though."

Maybe someone should've warned her about Asher.