He's hurt. It aches aches aches, every movement pulling at freshly-ruined skin and wounded muscle underneath, still throbbing with the ungodly chill of between and the voracious appetite of Thread in spite of all the numbweed he's been covered in. They've been grounded as a result, wings temporarily clipped by regulations and the fact that he needed to heal--he'd been foolish.

No.
Yes.
No, Cass. How could you have-- It hit us out of nowhere. You couldn't have known it was going to happen.
I should have handled it better.

C'asta sighs, almost reaching up to adjust his bandages before remembering the healer's stern order not to do that--he lets his hand fall back to his lap, and his expression draws tighter still. All he can smell is numbweed and--blood, both old and fresh, stained into the infirmary over the course of centuries. As far as he's aware, he won't be in here for much longer, but he's quite convinced that the smell is going to be etched into his nose for a while after he finally leaves. He's sore all over, and breathing hurts, although C'asta knows that's not from the threadscore. He'd hit the ground so unprofessionally when he'd dismounted, if you could even call what he'd done that. Between the blood pouring down his riding leathers and the pain, he'd lost his balance, which had ended in an equally unfortunate collision with the stone beneath his feet as he fell, landing hard on his side. If there hadn't been much worse feelings taking precedence in his head, he might have even registered it as painful.
He hates this. He'd been subpar, and was being punished for it by a hand much less sympathetic than his wingleader. Hell, he'd prefer being yelled at by them to this--doing nothing but waiting, waiting, waiting, counting the hours, minutes, seconds until flesh knitted itself back together and he'd be cleared to fly again.

Cass.
Chiareth isn't having any of that talk, however. She never did. She's far too big to fit in the infirmary these days, but the waves of gentle comfort she sends through their bond is enough to ease a bit of the wear on his nerves all the same, even if he wishes he could simply hide under her wing for a while. C'asta didn't want to show his face for the time being. He'd been a rider for long enough to know better, and he'd slipped up all the same.
Shh, shh. These things happen, dearest. Another swell of warmth, chipping away at the tightly-wound mess of his existence. We're lucky it wasn't anything worse.
I know, I know. But it's-- I let it happen.
And how did you do that? Did you sit there, arms wide open, demanding the Thread come to us right then and there? She's more forceful now, and it takes C'asta by surprise. And anyway, if you could redirect it like that, you certainly picked a terrible way to show it.
Well--no, I didn't, but that's not--
Then how did you let it happen? Last I checked, you were doing everything you could to stay safe and do your job.
So how come it happened anyway?
There are some things we just can't control. You know that.

She's right. He knows it. C'asta could never argue that--Chiareth was always his balance, and she always knew just what to say to get through all the little cracks in his armor.
I'm quite good at that, yes. It's kind of my job, you know.
He snorts softly to himself, leaning back just a bit in an effort to get more comfortable. It was futile, really, but it gave him something to do other than work himself back into yet more knots. He didn't fancy his chances of getting to do that uninterrupted, particularly not with Chiareth doting on him so intensely--not that he could blame her. He wasn't the only one being left with nothing to occupy themselves with for the next sevenday, after all. All the while, everything else would be piling up whether they were there to address it or not. There were drills to be done, personal practice to do, taking care of Chiareth, not to mention himself, and they'd have to check in with whoever got their watchriding rounds--
Cass, darling, please. We can get back to all that when you're not bleeding profusely.
I just don't like the thought of leaving it, though.
I know, I know. But in the meantime--try to relax. As much as you can, anyway.

Between the ache and the constant roiling of his thoughts, C'asta was none too sure he'd be able to manage that at all.