The blood you bleed Is just the blood you owe

She rested her head on his leg, and he allowed it. Shifting awkwardly to give himself room to move as he gave her three doses of the paste as she prescribed. He waited until it had gone down, before shifting back to the broken foreleg. He frowned at it, it wasn’t the first broken leg he had seen in his time. It wasn’t the worst break he had suffered. So why did this one change things? Why did he still feel that horrid taste of regret burning in the back of his throat?

He flicked the limb, and it wobbled a little. Broken and swinging. He sighed, and started to bandage it with the makeshift materials he had gathered for the splint. Pulling it into position, and wrapping it. Perhaps not with the same care she would have managed, but passable.

When he was done, he picked her up by the scruff of her neck, balancing one paw under her chest so he wasn’t pulling too much on her neck, and took her to the bed. He placed her down, arranging her so her broken limb wouldn’t be jarred, and pulled the blanket over her form. “You require rest to recover, and if you don’t recover you're useless to me.” He told her, looking down at her pale eyes and thin frame. As if his needs were the only reason he cared for her at all. It had to be, he couldn't accept the odd emotion floating through his veins.


"Speech"