I strike again. A bright spark catches on the dry moss left in the fire pit.
A flame.
I stare at it. I... made this.
It is not the fire of rage. It is small. It is warmth. It is life.
I feed it, my clumsy hands adding small sticks. The flame grows.
I look at her. She is still asleep. Still cold. Still dirty.
The blood must go.
I find a pot. It is a black, metal thing. I know this thing.
Why?
My mind aches with the questions, with these ghosts of knowing. But my body moves. It knows.
I scoop snow from the drift by the door. I hang the pot over the fire. I watch the snow melt.
Water.
I find a rag. I dip it in the hot water.
I kneel beside her. I am a mountain. She is a leaf.
I am afraid to touch her. Afraid I will break her.
But she is mine. I put the rag on her.
Gently.
I touch the hot rag to her skin. Her shoulder.
She whimpers in her sleep, a small, soft sound, but she leans into the heat.
I wipe the blood from her thigh. The Worg blood. I wipe the grime from her face, from her neck. My claws do not tear. My touch is... careful. I am a monster, but I am her monster.
I clean her. The honor of it... the need to care for her... it is a new feeling. It is deeper than rage. It is stronger than pain. I wipe every part of her body gently until the dirt has disappeared.
I look at myself.
I am covered in filth. Blood. Worg-fur. Dirt.
I... I must be clean.
For her.
I take the rag. I dip it again. I clean my own wounds. I wash the blood from my hands, my chest, my face.
The act is strange. It is new. But it feels... right. I am not just a beast. I am regaining something.
The fire is strong now. The den is warmer.
I look at Betty. She is clean. She is pale. She shivers in her sleep.
The furs.
