The potions feel heavier than they ought. It seems strange, wrong almost, to take potions from the living when you're a man walking to your death. Herc holds them, swallows thickly, and stows them in the empty spaces on his belt, checking them carefully to ensure not a one is wasted.

He doesn't quite have another laugh in him, but he does smile, even if his eyes are stinging more than is probably strictly dignified.

"One last time," he agrees. "Thank you." For more than the healing. For all this and for taking a letter that no one should ever have to have the misfortune of delivering.