It's simultaneously very horrifying and very logical that there's not any pain to speak of. The injured leg is there, of course, visible and sickening and singed, and that means it warrants alarm, but the shock of the injury and certain nerve damage makes it difficult to register beyond what's visible. Starting above Lazarus' ankle where his boots offered more or less adequate protection and extending a couple inches above his knee, one side of his right leg is in pretty rough shape.
Working to even out his quick, frantic, catching breaths, he finally looks at Misa when she screams. She's not covered, didn't even have the cursory protection of normal garments, and her bare legs largely took the brunt of the attack. His first instinct is to use the dropped stave, just a foot away and within easy reach, to encase them in soothing ice. If they were going to live through this, that would carry dangers and risks of complication: frostbite, of course, as well as intensifying hypothermia as the body loses heat faster through burned flesh.
But they're not going to live. That much, by now, seems abundantly clear, and instead of reaching for the stave, he wraps his arms around her, holding her tightly, offering his body as a paltry shield because it's all he has. A few seconds of pain, and then perhaps they'll meet again in the next life.
As the sound and charged air announce the beginning of the attack that will likely finish them off, though, a familiar voice causes Lazarus to lift his head and his gaze. "Richard..." he murmurs under his breath, maybe loudly enough for Misa to hear if she's stopped screaming. His eyes widen as he recognizes what this is: a chance, if nothing else, to actually get away, offered by someone far better equipped to face Damon and live.
"Misa, come on...!" he turns, shifting his weight experimentally. He doesn't have the strength of most men, but all the honest labor around Shepherd's Haven has improved the wasted physique of a former addict with hangups about food significantly. He does his best to position their bodies in a way that promises the most efficient distribution of their weights, and then he seizes the ice stave, using it to create a solid makeshift harness that can hold her in place against his back. It's not perfect, but it's the best he can do in a single desperate second.
Two deep breaths. Bracing on his good leg and leaning the rest of their combined weights on the stave, he manages to pull them upright. Even though he's shaking from adrenaline and shock and his injured leg is infuriatingly useless as it drags alongside the load-bearing stave, he makes clumsy but steady progress away from the battle with Misa in tow.
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Working to even out his quick, frantic, catching breaths, he finally looks at Misa when she screams. She's not covered, didn't even have the cursory protection of normal garments, and her bare legs largely took the brunt of the attack. His first instinct is to use the dropped stave, just a foot away and within easy reach, to encase them in soothing ice. If they were going to live through this, that would carry dangers and risks of complication: frostbite, of course, as well as intensifying hypothermia as the body loses heat faster through burned flesh.
But they're not going to live. That much, by now, seems abundantly clear, and instead of reaching for the stave, he wraps his arms around her, holding her tightly, offering his body as a paltry shield because it's all he has. A few seconds of pain, and then perhaps they'll meet again in the next life.
As the sound and charged air announce the beginning of the attack that will likely finish them off, though, a familiar voice causes Lazarus to lift his head and his gaze. "Richard..." he murmurs under his breath, maybe loudly enough for Misa to hear if she's stopped screaming. His eyes widen as he recognizes what this is: a chance, if nothing else, to actually get away, offered by someone far better equipped to face Damon and live.
"Misa, come on...!" he turns, shifting his weight experimentally. He doesn't have the strength of most men, but all the honest labor around Shepherd's Haven has improved the wasted physique of a former addict with hangups about food significantly. He does his best to position their bodies in a way that promises the most efficient distribution of their weights, and then he seizes the ice stave, using it to create a solid makeshift harness that can hold her in place against his back. It's not perfect, but it's the best he can do in a single desperate second.
Two deep breaths. Bracing on his good leg and leaning the rest of their combined weights on the stave, he manages to pull them upright. Even though he's shaking from adrenaline and shock and his injured leg is infuriatingly useless as it drags alongside the load-bearing stave, he makes clumsy but steady progress away from the battle with Misa in tow.