Her breath comes small, hitched, desperately held on. A little longer, a little longer, as she feels the first drop of that dark, dark liquid, water and blood, copper and pure - hitting her lips as she swallows down. Letting it fall back her throat like she had never drunk anything before. Down, down, down, and a moment later - she shudders.

It takes her another breath, before she cries out into his shoulder.

It never hurt for the slightest things to heal, but then, normally, it isn't so much: as the blackwater begins to take effect. Undoing all that damage, as bit by bit, shrapnel is either pushed out of her by stitching up and out wounds, or healed around. The heavy open wounds, beginning to sew themselves shut. The blood that begins to stop flowing. Held stiff in his arms, together if nothing else. Shuddering, the wet choking noises of pain hidden into him because she has done this enough to never let it out of her throat, be heard - because why should the undoing be anymore pleasant than the doing? Life was ever but one kind of pain after all.

Until at least, at long last, she's weakly held there, a mess still, her clothing torn to shreds, to weak to stand - but alive, now. Whatever that meant, right then.