Speaking with sharp teeth

Break the oath, owe me the hand. You'll break no more promises, for you've none to give.

Wolf your teeth are sharp, and your frame towering. But it is your words that burn and ignite that make me quake in my shoes.

You have been fighting for years, within a body no longer fit for yourself. Fighting and struggling as best you can, doing what you felt you must to catch another heaving breath, to hear your blood sing through your ears. Against binds, snarling the whole way, your tongue pinned to the roof of your mouth, held back by clenched teeth. And here you lay, tired and weary. The fire has died down, under quivering skin, but by no means out. A murmur, a glance, and you heave yourself forward. A wonder what you would be like should your binds be cut, your tongue let loose.

The only hand that would feed you was also the first to beat you.