she knows precious little, recipes from her time 'neath morwenna's tending hand. she gathers the herbs in her jaws, drops them at ghelan's feet with a panicked rush of breath. if only she could recall what was done to tend her own wound, the one at her neck. but memory does not serve her, not when so much blood was lost and so many bodies moved to save her.

yarrow she recognizes, crushes as quickly as she can into a fine powder. before she can reach him, however, he is falling. falling, falling, falling, striking the ground with a rough thud. and there is no time to cry for him. she cups his cheek with a hand, firm, and pushes the powder into bloodied eye socket. his jaws part, paws thrash, and her heart aches at causing him such pain, but she does not stop, holding consistent pressure until the flow of crimson slows. all the while she is apologizing, holding him still and grimacing all the while.

then, gently, ice between them melted, ghelan, the herbs. do you...need to eat any of them?