Open The Docks Blood On Her Paws

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Poor Arthur. Patting his shoulder as lightly as possible, the jerboa hoped that he had communicated his empathy. No doubt once sobered up the marten would be less inclined to discuss the matter, but given what seemed the deeply personal nature of whatever was bothering him, the least he felt he could offer the marten was a listening ear. His were big enough for the task, after all.

Nodding to Amnesty, Berchar had taken up scissors and snipped as she worked, quiet and focused on the task as he let her work. The vixen’s paws were skilful, and considering the state of the wound the work was admirable. He sat back on his tail, placing the scissors in the tin, and gave her an approving smile in response to her nod before looking back to Arthur. “Mmm, rest is best. I hope you haven’t anything scheduled for the next day or so.”

Red-brown eyes turned on Lisa; despite himself he chuckled also. “I think tea would be lovely, thank you - if it's not too much trouble, of course.”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur felt like he was on the Hide in the midst of a storm. The floor pitched and churned, spinning and twisting underneath him. And then, the needle dug into his pelt. He let out a muffled groan, and clenched his eyes shut. Stitches were unpleasant... ...but her skill was evident. The volunteer who had stitched him up had poked and prodded hesitantly. The vixens paws, however, guided the needle through in one confident pass.

"She'sh... donnis afore..." he mumbled quietly to Berchar, who had kindly inclinded an ear to him. They were all sitting on the floor around him like dibbuns playing doctor, and the thought would have been amusing if it wasn't so embarrassing. The marten sighed deeply between stitches, and listened to their banter.

By the time the stitches were done, Arthur was weary. He'd tolerated the procedure well, and had otherwise been quite the model patient. But he lay there quietly on the floor, wishing he could disappear into a corner of the house. "I... ...I don't finkeye kin' gehtup..." he murmured quietly, looking apologetically to Berchar. "Kinye... get a blankeht? I don'... I dohneeven know whosh housh dishish..."

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

Liza's wince as she brought herself to standing was not lost on Amnesty, and the fox felt yet another twinge of guilt. Had an acquaintance and two strangers practically fallen in through her door, she wasn't certain she would have acted half so gracefully, her own insistent invitation to Arthur aside.

"Three medically inclined beasts... the fates do seem to possess a certain sense of humor. Liza, tea would be lovely but can't I put the pot on for you? I'd hate to have to stitch you up as well." An overstatement, certainly, since there was lifting a tea kettle and there was falling down a flight of bloody stairs, but it was the principle of the thing.

Her ears flicked as she heard a few soft murmurs from Arthur's direction, one of which sounded like "blanket". That, at least, was an easy enough remedy. She glanced at Berchar to see if the jerboa had already found something with which to cover the marten, and as she did so felt a great wave of gratitude come over her. He hadn't needed to help, either, yet here he was. These were good beasts.

Unlike you.

Amnesty banished the thought almost as quickly as it came, though she still felt the sting of it. Softly, she answered the marten's question. "It's my friend Liza's house, Arthur. You're safe here."

 

[Liza Fairpaw]

Hearing Arthur's request for a blanket, Liza shifted her attention momentarily from fetching tea to lifting a folded blanket from the arm of the couch and pawing it off to Amnesty.

"Here you go. An' it's okay, I can at least manage a tea pot. Thank you, though. No pullin' a bowstring for a few weeks, so's I have to entertain myself with somethin'." She smiled gamely and returned to her original trajectory towards the kitchen. After a few minutes she returned and sank into the couch, paw to her injured side. "Well, water's on an' the pot is ready for brewin'. Maybe I will take somebeast up on the offer for pourin' when it's ready. I'm feelin' the need to sit for a bit."

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Giving Arthur the gentlest pat he could manage on his undamaged shoulder with a still-damp paw, the jerboa offered him a sympathetic nod as he listened. The poor fellow had well and truly gotten himself into a state: it was good fortune indeed that fate had put them together like this and offered the generosity of a floor to rest upon. No sooner had the marten asked for a blanked Liza had provided and offered it to Amnesty. “There you go,” he murmured reassuringly, “no sooner asked than done. You just relax, friend.”

Large ears twitched, first in concern for Liza and then embarrassment to hear that she may have caused herself discomfort for his sake. “Oh! Me and my manners, ladies,” the little rodent hopped to his paws at once, old-fashioned sensibilities from his childhood fast returning to shame him. “I’ll see to the tea from now: it’s the least I can do after you’ve both helped Arthur so very much. Please, rest.”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur's head nodded once. Staying awake was an exercise in futility. Earlier, he'd looked off towards a wall, too ashamed to meet the gaze of the beasts that came to his aide. But now, he was too tired to even lift his head. All he knew was the comforting weight of Berchar's paw on his shoulder, and the spinning room. His breathing slowed, and he drifted off to sleep.

In his dreams, the wolven obelisk sat silently before him as he lay on the floor, watching him. Judging him. Whispering wicked phrases in an unknown language. But Arthur was helpless before it. He couldn't move, he couldn't resist. He covered his face in shame, and wept in despair. But from the waking realm, a blanket descended on him -- sheltering him from the statue's gaze, and silencing the whispers. Clutching the fabric around him, the marten quivered in the darkness until an uneasy sleep finally took him.