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It wasn't that uncommon to find someone lying down on the training field. Usually it just meant that someone was either resting or slacking, and depending on circumstance should be left alone or given a gentle kick to get them back off the ground. But the figure half-visible behind a training dummy was lying worryingly still, and behind a dummy was a hazardous spot to pick for a rest. Jordan circled back to find out what was going on.

He was first shocked and then worried to find that it was Gale, and that Gale looked more unconscious than asleep; when he crouched down to check on the younger man, he spotted the bruises. Gale must have lost a spar, and with a particularly vindictive person. Gently, he shook Gale's shoulder. "Gale," he said. "Hey, man, you can't fall asleep out here. C'mon, wake up."

Jordan helped Gale sit up, frowning with concern. "Careful," he said. "Did your head get hit? Who did this? I was coming down to train," he added, "good thing I saw you before I started in on that training dummy. That could've been uncomfortable."

He peered carefully at Gale's eyes. If the other man had been knocked out in the wrong way, he might have a concussion. Even if he didn't, they needed to get him to the infirmary. "Think you can stand?" Jordan asked. "If not, I'll carry you."

Concussion shouldn't be a concern, then; Gale visibly fought back nausea, and Jordan frowned, concerned. "How bad is the pain?"

He got up when Gale did, watching him closely. Gale seemed shaky, clearly hurting, unsettled by whatever had happened. He hadn't answered the question. Either he didn't remember who'd done this to him, or he didn't want to name his attacker. A private conflict of some sort? Or had he been taken by surprise? The latter seemed more likely to Jordan; from what he knew of Gale, the younger man was a calm and steady person, and he had a hard time imagining him involved in something that would have escalated to this kind of violence. As Gale wobbled, Jordan slipped an arm around his shoulders carefully. "Here, lean on me," he said. "Let's get you to the infirmary. Painkillers, if nothing else."

Jordan looked away politely, trying not to listen; he hated vomiting himself, in part because it felt awful, in part because of the loss of control, and he never liked having anyone there when it happened. Once Gale had finished, he offered his support again. "Your throat must be pretty banged up," he said neutrally.

"Rough spar?" he inquired cautiously as they started off again toward the infirmary.

"Happens sometimes," Jordan said, and left it at that, though he gave Gale a curious glance. If Gale felt like talking about it, he would, and prying was often the best way to get someone to clam up.

"Once or twice." Jordan didn't clarify who or why. "The thought ... wasn't a particularly comfortable one." The realization that he was capable of that kind of thought had been unsettling; the realization that it didn't disturb him as much as he thought it probably should had been worse.

He slanted a sideways look at Gale. Perhaps they all had that carefully obscured depth of violence, the capacity that few people liked to admit was present.

"I have a vivid imagination," Jordan answered dryly. Then, a little more seriously, "I haven't yet been in a situation where I had that urge while the person in question was directly in front of me." In this world, he didn't add. His other had not always restrained himself, and he didn't like to dwell on some of the dreamlike memories he had inherited when the fragment integrated itself into his mind. "I'd like to say I'd walk away, but the opportunity hasn't arisen."