You are too focused on helping the striken child to notice the senile man’s arrival at first. He cries out, and you flinch against it, closing your eyes to make it easier, to keep yourself from his wriggling form, from your guilt for hurting him even though you know it is necessary to make it better. Soon enough, however, he stirs, and you pull away, turning your head to find the man hovering like a lost puppy. Your mind does not make the connection, and his familiar face is met with a snarl, your ears flattening against your skull. The boy’s cry elicits your attention, however, and you turn from the man on a lingering glance, a look for him to try anything, not understanding their obvious relationship in the haze of the moment.

“That will take time. You need to rest.” As he springs upwards, the crotchety old man mirrors your actions in rushing to support the boy, though your heart still skips a beat in the face of it, distrusting, until the tenderness in which he touches the child, cradles him, becomes more than apparent. You step back, teetering on thin limbs within the mud as the realization finally dawns on you. You never thought the man capable of love, capable of taking care of anything except himself (and what a poor job he’s done), and yet he has a child, if not by blood then at least by choice. “You’re welcome.” It is hushed in your surprise before you blink, smiling down at the boy before the man speaks again, of a grove and shelter. “Wait.” You do not stay for a response from either of them before you pirouette away, searching among the debris for a particular plant.

Before long, you find the long leaves, the tall center stem tipped with a furry brownness, and immediately begin digging in the filth, the rot, until you expose its roots. Several are carefully plucked and carried back to the pair in your mouth. You place all of the pieces except one, which you patiently chew in to a pulp before reaching for the boy’s wing to apply the poultice along the bone’s thin line. “It will help with the inflammation,” you begin to explain as you move away, eyeing the pile of exposed root before looking to Albrecht, stifling the sneer that begins to surface. “Do it just as I have as he needs it, try to keep him quiet and calm; he needs time to mend. Make sure you do not eat it, it will make you sick.” The last part is said to the both of them, your face softening momentarily as you look at the child. “He’ll be alright?” With you? It is not said, only implied, your features turning back to its usual indifference, despite the worry, the lack of confidence in his ability, that lingers underneath.

but I’ve pushed myself down so far

I couldn’t come back if I tried