Comfortador

She smells of pain. Dyingpain.

I cannot find the wound on her. I have searched and searched, but there is no opening in her flesh, not even a smear of blood. I think she must be hurt inside somehow, like the time another fighter left his claw in my flank. She seems dazed, and holds herself curved inward as though trying to keep the outside world from jostling her, as though trying to keep her agony to a minimum. Yes, that is exactly how I moved when the infection was ravaging my body, when it was killing me with poisonous surety. I was helpless to fight it off, betrayed by my own body's attempt to repair itself- the skin had knit together and I could not get at the contamination to lick it clean. That horrible, piercing piece of him remained lodged deep within my muscle, sealed away from all my attempts to purify myself, dooming me to a slow, painful death. She healed me, then- took me to the place of sterile smells and hazy memories, and when she brought me home I was still weak, but I knew she had somehow carved the dying tissue from my body. I knew I would live.

I will not let her die.

She spends much of her time sleeping now, as the sick do. Her body is trying to heal itself, I am sure- but she is not eating properly. How will she have the strength to mend if she does not eat? I bring her meat, and she praises me, but she does not consume it. So I do what my mother did when we were very young, and injured or frightened. I curl up by her chest and purr: purr to soothe her, purr to let her know I will keep her safe in her mate's absence. She wraps her limbs around me, dampens my fur with her strange human substances. But I can smell the pain lessening.

I will heal her.

(Crossing My Path)