her gaze met his only briefly, her pale eyes soft like the low mists that rolled into the valley at dawn. sápai, he said, and she gave a small nod, pleased, like a leaf shaking in quiet approval.
her slender paw moved again over the bundled herbs. careful, gentle. this time she selected a tighter coil, wrapped in old rivergrass and dry moss, and held it out so he could smell it. sharp, earthy. it held the scent of rot and bite and something else— something sweet. honeyed. she pointed to his paw next, where he nosed those old scars, and then to the bundle, then back to him. a gesture, clear enough.
nuvts'aya sápai, she offered, her voice feather-light. wound medicine.
then, as if sensing his deeper curiosity, cloud lash leaned closer. she did not touch him, but she brushed her muzzle just above his scarred paw, exhaling warm breath across the old hurts. it was not healing, but comfort. and that too was medicine.
when she drew back, she tapped the bundle of herbs lightly with her nose and gave a small smile, head tilted like a bird listening for roots beneath the soil. yes, she seemed to say. for wounds. this, she could share.