It's an incredibly long and exhausting night, and Marian is already tired at the start of it, because she worked a lot of overtime on her last relentless shift with this patient. 

She believes in this patient, though, and his unshakeable will to live. She hopes it's enough. 

Over the course of the night, though, they slowly make progress, bit by bit. The new antibiotics finally seem to be getting ahead of the infection, and the patient's fever is starting to subside. With the fever easing, they're able to lower his heart rate to only 120, still higher than she really likes but at least it's putting somewhat less strain on his heart. His blood pressure hangs on, and she's finally able to titrate down the vasopressor drip from the maximum rate. He's oxygenating well on only moderate ventilator support. 

...By dawn, Marian is yawning and blinking as she carries out her final assessment before shift report. She...thinks maybe there's some new responsiveness there? The patient pulls his hand away, weakly, when she pinches his nailbed. 

She takes his hand, knowing he can't understand the language but hoping he can at least hear her voice. "Hey. You're still in the ICU. It's been a couple of days, you were really sick, but - you're doing better now, I promise. I'm right here." 

Dawn's light filters through the blinds in Altarrin's room. The night shift nurses begin briefing the day shift on the patients still clinging to life in the ICU. When it comes to Altarrin's room, though, the report sounds more hopeful. His fever broke at last in the early hours before sunrise, infection retreating enough for his body's defenses to rally.
The day nurse assigned to Altarrin checks his charts and the machines keeping watch for any warning signs, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Still critical, still tenuous, but it seems the long fight may have turned at last in their favor. She does a quick assessment of IV sites and surgical incisions, noting signs of healing and making adjustments as needed.
Satisfied for now, she steps out to check on the next patient, casting a glance through the window into Altarrin's room. The familiar face of the nurse who fought so hard at his side these long days past catches her eye, a quiet conversation in progress. Good. If any deserved to see this victory, it was her.

Altarrin drifts through fog and haze. He's vaguely aware of pain, of light and sound and movement around him that he can't make sense of, but it washes past him. 

- where is he - try to orient -? 

He struggles to open his eyes. 

The day nurse looks up from her charting at the sound of a quiet groan from Altarrin's room. It seems her patient is waking at last - or trying to. She hurries over, peering down at him with a smile. His eyes are open, but glazed and unfocussed, blinking against the light.
"Welcome back," she says softly, taking his hand in hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. His fingers remain limp, but the eye contact, however fleeting, is encouraging. She keeps up a steady stream of soothing chatter as she checks readings and IV sites, giving his sluggish mind something to grasp onto.
Recovery will be slow, but this first fragile spark of awareness is a victory sweeter than any. The long fight has left him weakened, but not beaten - not yet. For the first time, she allows a flicker of real hope. If he has clung this long, through all the dark hours where death seemed certain, perhaps he will find the strength to heal at last.

Over the next few hours, Altarrin is gradually more aware of his surroundings. Which isn't entirely a blessing - his burned arms really really hurt and he can't move them at all, which is distressing - but he still fights his way toward consciousness. By noon, he's able to consistently open his eyes and focus on the faces of the staff caring for him, though of course he still has no idea what they're saying. He desperately wishes for Carissa's translation magic, or at least an item of Detect Thoughts so he could understand what they were saying to him. 

As Altarrin struggles to stay alert, watching the nurses around him through half-lidded eyes, the dayshift attending physician makes her rounds. Dr. Zee checks the readings from the array of machines surrounding his bedside, nodding in satisfaction at the numbers on the dialysis monitor and ventilator. The heavy-duty antibiotics seem to finally be gaining ground.
She pulls on a pair of gloves and gently peels back layers of bandages swathing Altarrin's arms to examine the grafts and surgical sites beneath. The angry red streaks of infection have faded, incisions knitting together as his body rallies to heal at last. “Looking good,” she murmurs, re-wrapping his arms with practiced efficiency.
Satisfied for now, she moves on to the next critical patient, but files Altarrin’s improving condition away in her memory as a victory hard-won. After days of touch and go, the long fight to cheat death of this one may just pay off. But the road ahead remains long, and there are still too many ways healing could falter until the risk has passed. Not yet time to declare the battle won.