XXIX: Dote

“Luv, really, I’m fine.”

“Y-You’re bleeding s-still—should I go g-get a healer…? I… I
don’t know where a-any are and I shouldn’t leave you—”

“Luv, would you stop fussin’ and come over here where I can
reach you already?”

Arshtat paused, the floorboards creaking under her weight as
she collected things from around their room. Her arms were full of towels and
bandages, and anything that might have been of use. Perhaps she was overreacting,
Madoc certainly thought she was.

But he was the one who had returned home late at night,
bleeding. It was not the first time, much to Arshtat’s dismay, but rarely it
was this bad. Or this bloody.

The wound itself was not that bad, Madoc had tried to tell
her. Arshtat admittedly had not gotten a close look before she had panicked and
hurried around to collect what they had to tend it. It had bled, quite a bit,
but it was only a singular bite wound around his lower leg where something had
latched on.

The little Xaela was no doctor, but she could patch up a
wound well enough. She had gotten quite a bit of practice since meeting Madoc.
She knew he didn’t like the worried doting, but she often gave him no choice.
It helped ease her own mind.

Shaking her head once, ignoring his sad almost-whine, when
she refused his offer, Arshtat finished collecting her supplies and only then did
she move closer. But she gracefully dodged a reaching arm, and instead kneeled
on the floor by his wounded leg.

Madoc sighed, amused, but dropped his head back on the couch
and let her work. Some time later, it was cleaned, stitched and bandaged. He
had tried to get up once, but the fiery glare he had received when he tried had
him sinking back in the cushions pretty fast.

After the wound was taken care of, she had frantically
cleaned up the blood, and hurried off to the kitchen to make him something to
eat. Khuu had taken a spot next to him on the couch, curiously tilting his head
this way and that, unsure what the commotion was about.

Madoc inclined his head toward the cub, the corner of his
lips twitching up, “Aye, best not ask her for the ale now.”

Khuu merely tilted his head again.

When Arshtat finally returned, he humored her by finishing
the meal. It was hard to turn down anything when she gave him eyes like that.
He could tell she was still worried. But it really hadn’t been anything to
worry about.

She fussed a little more, gathering extra pillows and a
blanket so he could elevate the leg. She started a fire in the hearth. And only
after all of that, did she finally give in and let him take her into his lap.

Madoc glanced down, fingers brushing through her long hair.
He smirked. She was out like a light. It wasn’t a surprise, with all the
scurrying about she’d done. Arshtat was curled against his chest, arms loosely wrapped
about his middle. Khuu had also claimed part of his lap, head resting on his thigh
as he slept.

He let out a long breath, shaking his head. He guessed he didn’t mind being doted on every now and again if it all ended up like this.

---

Featuring @locke-rinannis‘s Madoc Parnell

XXVIII: Echo

He was dying.

He had always thought there would be pain. But there wasn’t.
There was nothing but the beat of his heart, far too loud, echoing through his bones
and the sound of the rain. He didn’t feel anything anymore.

Kazha’a could taste the blood in his mouth. What darkened vision
he had showed him how stained the earth beneath him had become. Red mixing within
the puddles of rain. His breathing was shallow, forced. He knew there was a
deep knife wound in his chest, but he didn’t feel it.

As he lay in the mud, Kazha’a had accepted it. He had to. He
couldn’t move. He had no strength left to call for help. His mother, his clan,
they had all left him to bleed out in the storm.

And he had no one but himself to blame. His pride had led
him here. He had sought her out. Kazha’a had sought an end. But she had toyed
with him. He had been little match, even after all these summers.

It was nice, at least, to be surrounded by trees. The gentle
sound of the rain falling through the leaves combined with that shuddering beat
of his heart to create a calming melody. Kazha’a felt his eyes slip closed.

His sister would cry. It must have taken all she had to
leave with the others and let him there. But she was smart, she was strong.
Kazha’a knew she’d be fine. He had wished he could have given her a life she
deserved. But she was alive. And he could die knowing that.

And then there was a voice, calling out.

At first, he was convinced he imagined it. Perhaps a distant
animal. But it called again, and this time it almost sounded like his name. He
could not answer it, but his eyes pried open, blinking away the darkness and wetness.

He felt hands on him before his vision cleared. Gentle, but
frantic hands. The voice sounded so familiar. It almost sounded like his
sister. Maybe his dying mind had conjured that up. But the hands felt real
enough.

As he was turned over from his stomach, her shape came into
view. His brow furrowed, unsure still if she was really there. She shouldn’t
be. He cracked out a sound that was supposed to tell her to leave. But only a
gurgle sputtered up around the blood.

There was another voice, one he didn’t know. And that was
the last he remembered.

That moment never left him. It came again and again in dreams.
And while he felt peaceful in those echoes of memories, while he had no fear of
death, he’d wake up in a cold sweat.

Kazha’a hadn’t died that night, but maybe he should have.

Boogeyman: What position does your muse sleep in? (Ellere)

“I suppose most commonly I find myself comfortable on my side,” she gives a little laugh, “Though I have been known to fall asleep at my desk atop my work, as well. I must not be terribly picky.”

Crowds: What does your muse think of big cities?

“Don’t really care for them. Loud, full of people. No trees. If I didn’t have to find work, I’d never go in one.”

Mirrors: What is your muse’s least favorite thing about their appearance? (Josie)

“Is that truly a proper question?” she seems quite annoyed, arms crossed. She remains quiet for a while, clearly debating on answering. But after a while, the furrow in her brow relaxes and she quietly replies, “…the freckles, I suppose. They used to tell me it was a sign of poor breeding, and the other children often made mockery of them.”

Solitude: Name 3 things your muse couldn’t live without.

“I do not like to think of such… circumstances but I suppose…” she tilts her head, thinking, but soon offers without  much hesitation. “Madoc and Khuu. They are m-my family now. If everything else was gone… I… I know we would be fine if we were together.” There’s another pause, this one longer, “The third… well, p-perhaps my bow? It is about as much as I took with me from the Steppe, and it has kept me company.”

Blood: What’s the worst injury your muse has ever had? (Ihzu)

“Tail was bitten off,” he shrugs, looking about as impressed as usual. “Was stupid, I was young. Still some there, so it’s fine. And I killed it in the end.”

How would your muse win back someone who left them?

“What a question, that one is,” she sighs, but smiles. “I would first ask myself if said person was worth it, dear. And why they left in the first place. A sad fact of life is… that there are many you will meet that are not worth such a chase, such a heartache. If they loved you, cared for you in return, they will find you again and you, them.”

Heights: Is your muse a risk-taker? (Kaz)

“Not really,” he shrugs, “I guess maybe I used to be. My line of work called for it. Still does. But I’m not stupid. I don’t take things I can’t handle. Just because it’s dangerous, doesn’t mean it’s a risk.”

Falling: What does your muse think about falling in love or commitment? For Josephine!

“It is not something for me. Once perhaps, but not now,” she pauses, looking distant. “I do not believe myself capable, and there are few who would look upon me and wish to make a wife.”