He obeys, silent and weak and closer to death than she can guess, but he does anyway, which is more than she really expects. She can't stop the sharp inhale of breath or the worried look, mixing horror and confusion more and more potent each time she has to remove another piece of his clothing to reach another wound and finds him only further and further scarred.

She was no novice to scars. καναρίνι, who learned to fall into suit and stride, to say with her sisters, still laughing even at the most dire of seconds, complain tomorrow, if you're still alive. You didn't become an Amazong without knowing them all intimately, both on your skin and on others, training for war every day as though it was already raining down from the heavens. But this. This was something else. She didn't know what it was.

But the brutality of the strikes and the lack of care when it was given sung in every ragged ridge of even the scars that weren't open, it's like a map she can read with a compass to translate the words.

καναρίνι started a little at the sound of his voice, assuming he might have passed out from the pain of cleaning out and stitching up five wounds already. The question isn't any easier than the darting, trapped bird of her heart at that voice. At the scar, the one she'd almost let her self-reach out a finger to trace in confused, sympathetic horror.

"Paradise." Someone said that, and that alone, to her when she first asked. It's hollower on her lips this time than her memory of how it was given to her. Because it will not be that for him. Anything offered or earned by her here will not be extended to him through grace. She knotted her last stitch on this one.

"The island. Specifically. Paradise Island."
It probably won't be for her either, when she's discovered.