fuck that shit let's start a riot

// you knew who I was //

The Levinsward. That's what Danta had insisted to the medics the moment he'd been able to shift himself back into something without feathers (he'd been laying face-down on a gurney, granted, while they literally cut his coat and shirt off him). They'd been out in the Levinsward and had gotten thoroughly unlucky. And given the fact that he's the fucking Theocrat - and adding in Asta's very good relationship with certain surgeons within the Infirmary - they're very inclined to believe him.

(Or they just care more about fixing them up than the context, but either way).

He remembers little of the journey through the Greatwood; how long it had taken, whether Asta had spoken, if the other man was okay or broken beyond fucking repair. He barely remembers the past hour, knowing only that one of the medics with healing magic had hovered over him for as long as possible before confessing that she needed to conserve strength for other patients.

Danta hadn't complained; he's still sprawled on his belly on one of the beds, arms tucked beneath the pillow, a stark dressing taped over the space between his shoulder blades. All he cares about now, though, is getting some good painkillers and going the fuck home.

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //