Dazed and a little confused, Volo takes a look at their tattered clothing and pouts. But the mere thought of casting a spell worsens the headache, and he would really rather get busy with a sewing needle than to call upon the arcane. He missed that, mending his own clothes by hand. Oh, but the stains! That would require quite a bit of tending to, and it's barely been a few minutes since he rose from the dead so-to-speak ( if death is even possible where it is impermanent ). And then there was all the note-taking and catching up he'd have to do. How long has he been drifting? How long has it been since he'd been in that awful ambulance, with all the bright lights and the blaring siren? It's nice to be back, but it's terrible to know all the fuss he's caused.
They aren't incapable of being sucked in by the dark pit, the horrifying thought that just a few days ago, the entity named Volothamp Geddarm would cease to be. It's a thought that will fester, and continue to grow in the coming days, but he is doing all in his power to avoid it ( deflect, deflect, deflect. It wasn't so bad. He got back from a long rest. It needn't be more complicated than that, right? ). It is not the wrath of the gods or the torture of the devils that Volo fears most in death; it is the infinite, ever expanding nothingness. The fugue plane. A place where one could wander without wonder. That is what's most horrifying of all.
"I..." Lifting his head, away from the newly-acquired tally marks, Volo blinks distantly a few times. Fiyero's gentle touch is a fireplace in the winter, one in which Volo wishes nothing more than to curl up in front of. The pain is hard for him to put words to; it's as though the pain had deeply embedded itself beneath his skin, like it's still fresh and torn open, as if the scars are a mere illusion. And yet he only has his pained winces and torn clothes to show for it. Volo takes a deep breath, sighs, and grimaces. "Feel... a rock has been wedged into my skull."
( a statement with a little too much truth to it )
"But you..." ( you look worse. ) Brows furrow in concern, shoulders slack. "Come here, please?" He makes a small sound, lifting his own weight to make room on the bed. It's already not very big, but he hopes that Fiyero doesn't mind it so much, patting the small empty space left. Volo fumbles with the buckles of his shirt before being able to take it off, then reaches into the nightstand for something. It's awfully cold, but he'd rather not think about that; he just wants his shirt mended and his friend close. Out from the drawer comes a small sewing kit. Volo searches for the switch to his lamp, getting to work right away.
"You should rest," ( please stay ) "you seem..." ( troubled, weary, distraught, worried ) "as though you haven't... a single wink in days." Their voice is quiet, weak, and yet restless; even if the body begs for it, in every stabbing sting of pain, in every beat of its pulse in his skull, Volo cannot find the will to sleep ( too afraid of finding that endless void, too afraid of finding out this may just be a dream, of waking up in the ambulance, in a place where the gods are unable to reach ). The needle moves with purpose, methodically, the thread a shade not befitting of the fabric.
( Even under the dim light, he can see; the stains, of his own blood, so much of it there is barely the original color left. Many would call this a fruitless task, that the garment would never go back to its original design. Not without extensive hand-washing, not without the use of mending, not without all sorts of trouble. But Volo was not looking to restore it completely. He sought to calm the trembling of his hands with monotonous, familiar work. )
