The boy crumples to the ground and the witchâs response is a tired, heavy sigh as if all the worldâs weight is on her shoulders. She has become far too used to this; wolves from far and wide find her woods remote enough to bound about guilt free on four legs then slink off sheepishly on two. Usually while being shooed off and shouted at by an angry witch. Having one crawl through the back gate into her garden, however, is a first.
She watches his unconscious form for another moment, knowing very well she is less than capable of dragging him into the cottage. So she leaves him there, abruptly turning on her heel and begins to busy herself, plucking various herbs and plants from her herb garden and placing them in her mouth on her way to the well, drawing water from it. Her manner as she works is brisk and efficient yet strangely unworried; she has seen the likes of this before, knows that urgency is not strictly necessary, especially when she knows what she is doing. All the while, she chews on the herbs and pays no mind to the taste.
Finally, bucket in hand, she trudges back to him, giving him another once over as her head falls back with an annoyed, dramatic groan through the chewed herbs in her mouth. The bucket is set down by his head and she kneels, grabbing his side and pulling with all her might until he is rolled onto his back. With a gentle tut, she tears the remnants of his shirt furtherâsheâs sure he wonât mind, not in this state, at leastâand gives the nasty gashes across his chest a brief look. Her hand falls to the mud, grabbing a handful of it and bringing it up to her face before spitting the herbs into her palm and atop the mud. The two mix together in her hands with ease and spread across the gashes with a little effort, leaving a bumpy green and brown paste across his wounds.
And then she stands with a soft groan, grabbing the bucket again before unceremoniously dumping it down on his head.
@wolfskiinned
