The war has made Matthias used to a certain briskness of manner. He neither needs nor likes coddling. This is different, a brusqueness that presses a hot finger of shame against the back of Matthias' neck. He ought to have been more helpful--or, if he couldn't have managed that, then he ought to have gotten out of the way of the debris in time.

"Nothing," he says, staunchly--but that's obviously a lie, so-- "Nothing I can't manage, I mean. Only my shoulder. We can go back and I'll get it seen to."

There isn't any pain to it, at least. Neither is there any feeling, and that numbness is likely worrying, but at least there isn't any pain, not yet. Adrenaline is likely to thank for that. And if he can make it even halfway back on adrenaline, he'll be all right. Maker, but he resents this feeling that Lukas has put in him. He hauls himself to stand taller against his staff, his jaw set.

"'Cause there's nothing to be done for it out here, is there. So let's go."