Every moment she spends thinking on why they had kept him alive leads her to terrible conclusions. Cleaning the wound of dirt but wrapping it poorly, another sign. It strikes her as a kind of cruelty, a precursor to whatever mock judgement would be passed upon him when they'd reached their destination.

Her hands settle lightly at either side of the slash. Her power flows from her palms, lapping cool at his skin. By and by, the wound closes. Only the crust of dried blood remains to mark the space where the slash had once lived. She doesn't look up at him until the spell completes, and her fingers have curled around the rubbed-raw mark on his wrist.

"You're welcome," she answers. Sincere. "There wasn't any other option."

Of course she would do all of this for him. She would have done more, if need be.