[He, too, is subdued, though obviously not for the same reasons. It's with an odd lack of rancor that he says, to himself--]

I want you to put those away.

[He doesn't flinch from the blood, or the look Lancelot directs his way. He's held the gaze of Berserker himself, if briefly; after that, and after what's just happened, there's probably very little that could move him now.

To their knight, he says:]

He won't die. I need you to hold him still.

[With no further preamble, he places his hands on the unrecognizably thin chest outlined in blood, and reaches numbly for his magic.

It's possibly the oddest instance of spiritual healing he's ever attempted. It's little more than forcing prana into the wounds, an emergency patch, and he doesn't bother to make any pretense at finesse. It's just that much easier because their prana is -- well, their prana. The Worms won't react as much to something so familiar, and if they do he's certain he can at least force them back to manageable levels.

A little agitation is good for them, anyway. It alerts them to the fact that they might want to fix up some of the holes they've made in their host before he bleeds out.]