Even dying, on the very edge of death, her blood is full of power. The blood of a goddess in his lungs, a goddess who wants to heal him. It heals what it touches, spreads out in little waves to his internal organs as the power is picked up by his OWN blood circulating through his lungs. Even as he retches it up into a bucket, it is healing what it touches as it passes out of his body.

An echo of her words not to waste it, if she's going to bleed anyway she'd rather it do him some good.

She breathes, a wretched, gasping sound, her chest rising under his hands. She's not conscious, but her heartbeat is strengthening. The next breath is a less dreadful sound, the third better still.

Death's grip slackens, then releases. There is other prey to be hunted tonight.

The arrow he pulled from her flesh sits on the table, mocking him. A whisper in his mind. 'He struck at her to get to YOU, Skellig. To make you hurt, to make you suffer.'