Theon looked up quickly the moment the question was asked. His gaze was wild beneath the brittle white hair, distrusting in an instant in spite of the food he had eaten, the wineskin he now grasped. He licked his dry lips slowly, and narrowed his eyes to focus once more on the man before him. Red. Red and slight, but taller than he himself was. His shoulders drew up with a sickening grind, bone upon bone, aching from tension and his time on the cross. He watched the hand as it moved, motion attracting his attention far more than any other visual cue. His vision had faded so much.
He moved slowly, carefully, filth and blood staining the snow as he shifted. His upper lip curled for a moment in a snarl, but when no further motion happened, he did indeed obey. The firmness, the order - those were things he could understand it seemed. One filthy hand extended, and beneath the bandage it became readily apparent only three fingers remained: the ring finger, the index, and his thumb. The rest were nothing but stumps, festering ugly wounds the bandage did little to help.
His hand was hot to the touch beneath the bandages, shaking even though he set it within Newt’s grip. His body was tense enough to be ready to run at the smallest possible sign of distress, though it was doubtful he had the strength to do so.
“Theon,” he murmured as his voice cracked. “Theon Greyjoy.”
Newt stayed low to the ground, trying to appear as small as possible as he examined the stranger's hand and his obviously poor state. Mentally and physically, this man was mangled. Slowly, he pulled a potion from his pocket and gently poured it onto those fingers, watching as the stubs and everything else it touched was cleaned. This allowed him to look at the damage beneath the filth as it started to heal.
"You don't happen to still have... these, do you?" As he asked, he gestured subtly to the missing fingers. Now that Theon was talking, Newt could see how far his comprehension went and deepen the conversation. The man seemed to be waking up a little bit mentally, which was a good sign and something he wanted to see how far he could run with.
He didn't put too much thought into the fact that he was a man who seemed to thoughtlessly use magic (he used it like it were as normal as water) in a place where magic wasn't often seen. Not real magic, anyway.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Theon Greyjoy." Special attention was paid to the syllables of that name, but his eyes remained diverted from the other man's; for the most part. There were flickering moments where he'd make eye contact, mostly where it seemed appropriate, but he'd always lower his gaze back to that hand. Not because he needed to assess the damage and consider what other potions might help aid in the healing process, but because eye contact was not particularly pleasant for Newt. He kept the discomfort off of his face though, and continued to look soft, gentle, and strong.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to get a better look at you." He paused, trying not to overwhelm Theon with too much stimuli by keeping the talking bits short. "We're safe here, I've made sure of that. I can strike up a bath, let you get clean, and this-" He gently squeezed the hand with the wounds he'd healed. His potion would have greatly changed the health of that single hand, healing all wounds and cleaning it to the point that it was completely sterile. It would still be cold, but Newt's hand (and the fire) was warm enough to bring it away from the point of frostbite, where it had been when he'd arrived. "-will only be the beginning, but I require your assistance and cooperation. Let me help you."
