Daryl's touch grazed Theon's face, fleeting and jacked up on adrenaline, calloused hands in fingerless gloves. A splatter of blood smeared under the pad of his thumb, streaking rust across Theon's cheek.

"You're alright," he murmured, quiet enough to be meant only for himself, his forehead dropping briefly to rest against Theon's as he let out a shaky breath.

"Come on," he said, gripping Theon's hand and hauling him up. "We're going."