the wind around the willow

all you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach

Wincing to feel how cold and clammy the butcher is beneath the warmth of his hand, Danta resists the urge to let fire flare between his fingers, worried he doesn't have the presence of mind to keep it under control. He glances at the muck and blood as it becomes visible against the other man's clothes, Asta's shadows parting and grasping for him as he slumps to sit down. Danta doesn't even try to catch the cane, flinching at the noise of it clattering against the hardwood floor, but then he can see the butcher's face properly for the first time and his breath catches in the back of his throat.

"Gods," he whispers, his feet carrying him forward without his permission to stand between Asta's knees, hands reaching to gently cradle his face between them. "Why didn't you go to the infirmary?" he asks, trying and failing not to make it sound like a chastisement. Danta has no bloodboon or magic or fancy healing jewellery to help, and at the mere mention of it the barman touches a gentle hand to his elbow, the Maverick nodding to send him off to the Temple to fetch someone.

"We need to warm you up." The words leave his lips as if on autopilot, grasping for the things he can do rather than try to figure out the extent of Asta's injuries - and gods, the state of his arm - and how to treat them.

Dantalion

don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep 'em on a leash