Midnighter's grin turns wry. He trots the horse around, surveying the battlefield from a distance. "In a manner of speaking."

He turns to stare at the wound in his shoulder with a detached expression, before pulling a length of cloth from his side and cutting it off in a strip. He ties it around his arm, securing the wound and making sure it doesn't get worse before he has time to stitch it. He's fixed himself up before, but now isn't the time.

While he does this, he looks over at Henry. "You're a hell of a fighter. What year?"