He lay prone on the coverlette.
After hours, or what seemed hours, his mind was stable enough for hate.
He lay in the darkness hating her. Even above the instinctive fear he hated her.
He tossed in fever thinking of after the invasion when she would be captured. The last of the sickness ebbed away. His thoughts adjusted, found more and more stability.
Slowly he drifted toward sleep which would heal up the confusions. As he hovered in the dark of near sleep, he felt a wash of mental assault from too far away to be effective. Her thoughts tapped at his shield and he dissolved it partly to let a little defiance flash out.
"I'll get you!" she answered coldly.
And after that, he slept, healing.
He awoke, automatically assessing the damage. It was less than he had expected. Sleep had resolved it into tiny confused compartments.
And he knew how hard it would be to keep up his shield for four weeks. There was fatigue on it already.