For a long, tense moment all Tenth could do was stare. Then, slowly, so slowly it would have been painful had he had the energy to feel impatient, he blinked once, twice, the fog clearing slightly, letting him gradually discern a familiar shape in front of him and the warmth of a hand on his cheek. There was sound, too - muffled noise he struggled to make sense of, eyebrows knit in concentration. It felt a lot like coming up from underwater, counting every sharp, ragged breath, every brush of wind against the skin, every opportunity to open his eyes to something other than the oppressive, insurmountable depths. Water always frightened him.

He leaned into the touch without realizing it. Liraeth's hand was gentle, he couldn't remember the last time he was subject to such kindness, though in the moment getting pinched or slapped would likely get his attention faster. Yet another testament to the fact Liraeth not only spoke kindly but meant his every word, too. He truly needed nothing of Tenth but for him to be alive and well. It was... confusing, but in a different way that clashed with the stifling power of the curse.

Tenth tried his voice again. "I..."

Immediately, his thoughts were a tangled mess, having him struggle for words he couldn't quite find. Liraeth was apologizing to him for gods know what. He couldn't have that. He had to say something, even if everything still felt like a fever dream he'd wake up from to the sight of his castle still in ruins and himself still trapped in a heartless armor suit - he had to be there, by the campfire, keeping Liraeth company, foolishly hoping that was enough.

"...asked you to do that... so it's... fine," he managed to get out, voice still too flat and distant, pauses still too long. At least his burned hand began to hurt - a welcome reminder of the fact that at if everything else seemed fake, at least the injury was real.

Unthinkingly, he reached forward, dropping his head on Liraeth's shoulder, wrapping his arms around the man's torso, holding onto him like he was an anchor, though even in his muddled state he'd let go if Liraeth were to bat his hands away. The wool of the mage's tunic was pleasantly soft under the knight's cheek.

He didn't cry. Would have, had he known how, but no matter how far he reached, he could find no memory of himself ever shedding a tear. So he simply shut his eyes, evened his breaths and suppressed the shaking of his shoulders as best he could, and waited for the effects of the curse to pass.

When he finally pull back, his expression was full of fear and surprise, like he's only just realized what exactly he was doing. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I don't know why I..." he stammered, biting the inside of his cheek as he remembered Liraeth's earlier request not to apologize. A request. Not an order. Gods, not another order. It left him so exhausted, he was barely keeping his eyes open.

His gaze drifted towards his burned hand, and he quickly dismissed it as nothing serious, barely worth worrying about.

"Thank you," he said to Liraeth, and meant it. "If you hadn't stopped me, I would've lost it."