His feet are unsteady, but he sinks onto the couch and he tries to calm down his breathing. "Are....are you ok, Art?" His half lidded eyes search hers for signs of pain. "Did she heal you?" His scythe vanishes, as he's too tired to keep it out of the shadows any longer. He groans, then says, softly, [i]"No thanks. Are needed. My work of Art."[/i] He falls into a deep, peaceful sleep.