FAO
I watched her sleep.
She'd fought it for as long as she could — stubborn, even when her body was screaming for rest. But the painkillers had finally pulled her under, and now she lay curled against my chest, her breathing slow and steady, her wounded leg elevated across the seat.
Thalia had checked Elowen's bandages before we left, given her antibiotics and painkillers, and told me to let her sleep as much as possible.
"The surface healing is good," she'd said, examining my work with a clinical eye. "You did well. But the internal damage needs time. Keep her off that leg, keep her fed, and let her rest. A week, maybe less, and she'll be back on her feet."
A week. Because of me. Because I'd waited too long to leave, too long to accept what I was, and now she had a hole through her
