His groan greeted her ears when she approached the tangled nest of thorns and vines that had become his bed; another indicator that he still breathed, and was at least doused with semi-consciousness. He may have only been vaguely aware of the world around him, but there was at least the knowledge of the dull roar of pain that pricked through his limbs. The Timekeeper had blacked his mind to the outside world, preferring to preserve his sanity with nothingness than to dwell on his own fate.<br/><br/><br/>The groan was just his complaint; he could sense her presence and that disturbed him from the tentative peace he clung to. That she was close enough for him to reach out and touch only irritated for him, for it also brought back the knowledge of the injuries, superficial or otherwise. Thick lashes flickered over the hollowed out cheek bones of his waning appearance as his head lolled to one side when she reached up to brush his parched mouth. His lips parted reluctantly and so did his lids to view the pale haired vision that had appeared before him in his make shift prison of thorns. He made to shift, only to have the sharp barbs cut deeper into flesh laid bare and vulnerable.<br/><br/><br/>Fathomless night met icy blue as the soft fall of rain of her own calling ran in rivulets down his face, down the chiseled expanse of his base chest and lower across the firm ridges of his stomach. Perhaps Fate’s own machinations found some sympathy in the being’s situation, for the twist of the bush that grew unnaturally from the ground wounds thickly over his legs and over his hips to encase anything too intimate to insult her eyes. Starlit depths burned brightly as they stared into her own for a stretch of time. Then he spoke, the deep boom of his voice crackling from fatigue and dehydration.<br/><br/><br/>“I would not bother, if I were you.”<br/><br/><br/>His expression remained a mask of chiseled marble, bearing no indication that he was effected by his circumstance, except for the slight flinch around his eyes as he shifted in his cage. His arms were pinned right at his sides; the involuntary movement he attempted with them drew fresh blood from the thorns embedded in his forceps and biceps both, like tiny knives slicing away at his essence. Despite the simple line he dropped on her ears, his attention remained penetrating as he awaited from this waif of a sprite was going to do.