At full health, Solin had been so strong, capable. He could lift a sheep, bales of feed....and he would regularly pick up Herbert for fun.

So it's in stark contrast in this moment that he can't even stand up unassisted, his breath coming in thin, wet rattles. He's wasted a bit, feels thin, frail.

He leans heavy back on the bed, green eyes fluttering, long callused fingers - so very like Alfred's, aren't they? - clutching at the shawl he has wound around his shoulders for warmth.

"Thank you, my dear. I...I had to stoke - hhhh - the fire, and everything went...everything went black."