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If there was a way for a grown man to look positively wilted in the same agony of Narcissus, Zihark did.
“-and those ghastly sand gnats that won’t quit-”
The tableaux that met her sight in the tent at the edge of the desert was illustrative enough; a precariously propped mirror balanced on a crate between his legs, with the blue-haired man hunched over on the cot in the throes of frustrated agony. For a split second she thought he had gotten poisoned – bad rations or otherwise – until she saw the rat’s nest that was his slightly greasy hair that he raked fingers through rather crossly, continuing to uncharacteristically grumble all the while.
For such a spotlessly-kept man, this was a crisis. A spiritual agony, even, which was rather fitting in this lovely pilgrimage of sorts through Grann to defeat a goddess.
“Ah.”
Found out, the swordsman abruptly turned with the caginess of somebody ready to bite a head off in lieu of an actual solution at hand. A private soul at the best of times, he could get downright snippy in the wrong mood. The solution to such theatrics -she had found out the hard way- was to let it all blow over with the bland apathy of a centuries-old tree and then pragmatically pick up the pieces afterward.
“Stand near a wind mage for the gnats, fire should work as well. Too bad we don't have Tormod. Besides, I think you were a little less freaked out about my being nearly at death's door than your current hair fiasco.”
That quip partially dissolved the tension in the air, and at least got him to ruefully snort in between his hands with the decency to look away.
“To be fair... yours is an exceptional situation.” Zihark wryly responded with the unhappy strain of an unsolved distraction. Still, it was a rather polite way of referring to her regeneration, thanks to pact-making spirits. Handling the occasional gristly effects made the rest of life seemed positively mundane - events like this were mere amusements, though she’d never tell him so.
Poor baby, she mentally responded.
“You sit there.” were the polite if firm order voiced into the tent.
There at the end of a gnarled finger was a small wooden crate instead of the portable cot, so she could ease herself up and stand behind his deceptively broad back to do some quick doctoring. Her handiwork wouldn't be a masterpiece, but she knew the general shape of his aesthetic preferences by basic familiarity.
For lack of any better action, the man switched positions with a small grumbled huff of annoyance. He was like a cat who had their fur rubbed backwards by the local bully; somewhat unable to put it right for there was always a right and wrong with him. Thankfully, unlike murkier matters such as the blood pact, there was an easy solve at present.
For once.
She dipped her fingers in the personal water skein she had scooped up from a table on the way in.
“What. Are you. Doing.” Zihark tartly hissed, all tension back in his shoulders with the way the leather armor flexed. No doubt he was concerned about her frailty; both of them knew the water rationing would last at least three more days through the miserable trek of Grann desert.
“It ain’t much water.” She blithely replied, shaking an experimental hand down his strands, and gently patted his cheek at the end to punctuate the words, the deliberately exaggerated over-familiarity more to feel -under blood and the faint hint of stubble- that raw tightness drain away like life essence at the mercy of of her black magics. “And anyways, the less you're distracted out there on the battlefield, statistically the less likely you're comin' back wounded, which is an optimum situation for both of us and Micaiah. Ergo... this.”
Another set of fingertips damp with water, another stroke deep to the roots of his hair. It wasn't looking nearly as bad now, she thought. The man did get a little neurotic at times, like one of those beautiful, leggy retired sheepdogs she had seen on farms, chewing off patches of fur off their legs out of boredom.
“...Please tell me it's not a fiasco.”
She snorted inelegantly, teasing apart a knot. This wonderful beautiful dumbass peacock of a man. There was an unmistakable thread of trust there poised in that appeal; it was truthfully -- endearing.
Raw, too, even beyond the surreal comedy of the situation. Few ever got to see him than any less than charmingly, guardedly put together. Zihark was all puzzle pieces that interlocked neatly to tell whatever story he wished to present, whether it be of bland pretty use or a hired sword for whatever mission or some mixture of both; fewer still saw the fractured doubts that plagued him, the deeper fears hidden behind the sharpest cracks of brutally-earned composure.
Fewer still were allowed to touch him after glimpsing those tragic gaps.
And so gently, so very gently, she ran another hand down those silky strands, correcting the placement, and putting things right. Ashera’s tits - in a world gone mad, even simple actions was the least anyone could do.
“Yours truly might be known to exaggerate at times.”
“... right.” Zihark nodded after another tight intake of breath; his composure clearly coming back with vengeance. If anything, by his shifting leg signaling impatience to be elsewhere, he seemed to want nothing to do with his previous mishap of emotions, which was fine by her. Neither of them particularly cared for unwanted displays of emotion.
“All clear, and see for yourself.” All-business-like, she handed him a mirror. There was no real reaction from him; but he was pleased, she could tell with a suspiciously similar head tilt of a confidently preened bird that Rafiel exhibited at times.
“Thank you.” Her swordsman was a model in politeness as he handed the mirror back, although carefully hidden embarrassment still colored his face with faint tension lines.
She waved a hand idly, as easy as a passing breeze. “It happens.”