Faster than he would have credited, given the situation, the woman is pressing his herbs into his hand. Already open - he brings the pouch straight to his face and inhales deeply, barely able to hold his breath for more than a heartbeat before his squirming lungs force it open again. But the next breath he desperately takes is a little smoother. And then next one, smoother still. He calms in seconds. his breath still comes ragged through his throat, and he can feel blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth, but he is breathing. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, absently.

"My thanks," he whispers, and falls silent, peering through the branches to the ground below. There's no movement, no sound but the distant screaming and the wind tossing the trees.