Grayell awoke immediately. It had been many years since he had slept soundly and without a care and therefore, his sword was already within reach. He sat up, legs swinging off the bed and silently dragged his new blade from it's scabbard.
Pacing through his house, he approached the front door. The fire in his hearth was low but enough to cast a lazy light around his main room - but wouldn't aid his seeing whoever it was. He though little of it though - more than likely something important - so he opened the door, sword at his side but ready to run anyone through who might attack.
He opened the door and saw a familiar figure, leaning against the doorframe. She looked up at him, and her eyes were chaotic, shifting back and forth from her human ones, clouded with red veins, to her wolfish ones. She spoke, and her words gurgled in her throat.
Grayell...I...
She fell forward, her eyes rolling back in her head.
Grayell lunged and caught her in his arm. He looked out into the night, looking up and down the street before he carried her inside, by the fire. He slipped her onto the floor, he hadn't any comfortable chairs but he had a collection of furs on the floor that made he knew were far better and she likely needed the warmth.
His hand on her forehead, his eyes raced over her, searching for injury.
Her skin rippled and cringed a little, shifting itself slightly back and forth. There was a large gash across her stomach that her lycan blood was struggling to heal, and was losing a lot of blood. Her neck was also cut, a long slice that nearly hit her jugular. With surprising strength she grabbed Gray's arm and tightened her grip, looking up at him with wild eyes.
Grayell's hand slipped from her forehead to her chin. He leaned in, compassion in his eyes that also had a hint of fear. She was hurt, gravely hurt and seeing her like this tore at his insides. This, he was not prepared for.
Hush, you're safe now. Lay still, I will see to your wounds ok?
Grayell had to leave her then, he slipped from the main room and into his store. His mind was racing, hands quickly grabbing this herb and that ointment, not sure he was taking only what he needed. He had been through all manner of harm an injury and Grayell was generally cool through such an ordeal - but if anyone were to complicate him, make him panic; well it was Liseth.
He was back at her side in an instant, some scraps of clean cloth with him. He kneeled down, looking at her injuries. His hands tore through a herb quickly, dropped the oily leaves into one of the cloths. He scrambled through the things he had gathered up and snatched a tiny vial of putrescent liquid and then poured it over the herb and cloth.
Liseth, this is going to hurt. You have to control yourself ok?
He breathed heavy, a long exhale that prepped his mind for what may happen. Her form was unsteady and pain could trigger her feral form. Should that happen, she may have no control. He had no choice though. He looked at his sword, on the floor by the door and shook his head.
He wrung out the cloth, folded it in his hands and then, with one hand on her uninjured shoulder, placed it to her neck wound.
Her eyes went feral and she arched her back, her canines growing long and sharp for a short moment as she roared in pain, her claws extending, latching onto his arm, digging in. She breathed through her teeth, hissing sharply, slowly retracting her claws.
Hisshhhhh.... She panted a little, her voice still gurgling and sputtering.
Grayell grit his teeth and ignored the pain in his arm. She was bleeding a great deal, too much in fact. The cloth at her neck was blood soaked already, and her stomach was still gashed open. He grabbed another cloth, folded a larger, broad leaf in it and pressed it to her neck again. His other hand was pressing on her stomach, trying to steady the flow.
Hush kitten. You can tell me later. You need rest.
Her rapid change was a sign that her blood was not coping. She might likely die and he hadn't the means to heal her. Her skin was pale, her control was all but shot.... this was not the first time he had seen a Garou die this way. Slow. Painful. Pathetic.
He was not prepared to let that happen, but blood flowed through his fingers, running to the floor. His mind was racing, trying to cope with the loss of blood but he hadn't the answer. He had to slow the bleeding.
Blood ran down Grayell's arm where Liseth's claws had sunk in. It wasn't concern, he paid it no heed - but as his mind raced, a slight whispering echoed in his ears. Their were no words, but a tugging at his psyche; a teasing, a plea. Something turned on, a bright spark somewhere within him and he had a realization. He knew nothing, but instinct gave him the tools to work the magic that ran through his veins.
Grayell closed his eyes. One hand on each wound, he could feel the power in her blood, a blood that she shared with him. His muscles tensed and bunched and his skin writhed as he willed his blood to come forth. The gash in his arm bled freely, but shifted it's direction; flowing past his elbow, trailing down his forearm and then past his hand. It met her neck wound and then trailed off, made it's way to her gut.
Grayell's blood entered her injuries, replacing what she had lost. He slowly opened his eyes, his breathing ragged, strained and he willed it to remain there, stay within her body and keep her alive. He could not hope to heal her, but controlling her blood loss, transfusing her with his own could well keep her alive. His head swam, his eyelids fluttered as his blood tore through his arm an flowed into Liseth until finally, it was done.
Grayell slumped, panting like a tired beast. His hands had slipped but her skin had regained some color. Her blood loss had tapered off, his blood having clotted as best he could manage. Tired and confused, Grayell took the time to take two fresh cloths, soaked them in the remnants of the oil and placed a herbal dressing on each wound. He tied off the cloth. His dressings would not stand up to any activity, he didn't have anything other than basic knowledge; but they were enough to keep her wounds on the mend whilst she healed. The herbs would do the rest.
Grayell sat back, still panting, his head still buzzing. He dragged himself to lay by the fire, beside Liseth and huffed heavy breaths. Using his blood had worn him out, his head was on fire. He only hoped it was enough.
After a few moments, he groaned as he managed to roll over and face her. She had been silent, perhaps finally resting.
Grayell shook his head. The throbbing in his head was slowly becoming less of a nuisance but would last for a short time yet. He'd have to fix that. With a grunt he rocked up, sitting before he turned and shoved himself off the floor with a groan. He looked down at her with a smile and then dragged an old blanket off a chair he kept by the fire. He draped it over her body to keep her warm.
Listen, you let me worry about that. They enter Wistvale and they'll have a lot more than just me to contend with. Dawn is not so far off, you need to get some sleep kitten. I'll make tea.
Those words came softly and kitten was the pet name he had always had for her. He'd spat it in spite more recently, but seeing her this weak, needing him; it was like flipping a switch. Habit.
He walked back to his store room and gathered up some simple herbs. Bringing them back to the fire, he tossed them in a small pot, added some water and hung it in the fire. It wouldn't take long.
In his absence, Liseth shifted almost all the way into a fox, curled into a ball, seeming to have gained some semblance of control. Her eyes were shut tight, and Grayell could see her breath come in raggedly. She mumbled her words, as if half-asleep.
Grayell half smiled, thoughts flooded with the events of this night. The tea started to bubble in the pot so he pulled it off and let it cool a while. He stoked the fire, she had the only blanket and there was a chill in the air.
Liseth.
He sighed, shook his head and went and fetched his blade. Resting it on the chair beside him, he sat and watched over him. He drank his tea, slowly taking the edge of the sensation is in his head. He was tired, dead tired, but it was not the first night he'd watched her sleep. These circumstances were vastly different of course.
If he knew her still, she'd be her boisterous, argumentative self in the morning. Her body would have healed quite well by then and no doubt she'd leave, the two of them still unable to come to terms with the past.
He wished it wasn't so. Her and he, well they were far apart now. Those days were behind them and he gave no thought to reliving those earlier times. She'd said she wanted him still, but it was not the same. That was not an easy thing to except. He thought himself a fool, that one touch and a word from her could erase the hurt of her betrayal - but he could not fuel himself on rage. No, she was still the person he had loved. Loved still.
Part of him wanted her to stay. Wanted to think she'd know it was safe here and that she could change her ways and be happy. But all of him knew she wouldn't. Thoughts kept to himself, he could only smile with sad eyes.