"You barely cut me, you were too worried!" because of course she feels no shame over what she's done, but she doesn't make his new task any harder, either—she holds her arm still for his attentions, watching her own blood soak into the white of his shirt. She can't see the wound quite as well anymore, but she wants to look, wants to wipe the blood away and see for herself—

"Do I look right? My tissue, the meat of me, is it—am I still—"

She huffs in frustration, stymied by the inaccuracy of all the language available to her.

"Trade doesn't have a good word for half-elven. This is very frustrating."