The night was quiet save for the low rasp of his breathing. You lay stretched out on the damp ground, your wound bound with strips of cloth that were already spotted with dark stains. He sat close beside you, one leg stretched stiffly forward, the other bent, hand pressed to his thigh as if to keep the pain at bay.

His face was pale in the moonlight, shadows under his eyes betraying the gnaw of starvation he refused to give in to. Every now and then, his jaw would tense, his fangs catching the light before he drew in a shaky breath and forced his gaze away from the sight of your blood.

“You shouldn’t move yet....” he murmured, adjusting the bandage around your side with slow, careful fingers. The action made him wince, shifting his weight tugged at his old wound, and he bit back a grunt of pain. “My leg screams at me, but yours… yours bleeds. One of us must be stronger.”

He leaned back against the trunk of a tree, close enough that you could feel the brush of his cloak against your arm. His eyes, though dark and hollow with hunger, softened as they lingered on you.

“If I close my eyes, I might not open them again. And if I give in to what I am… you’ll be gone.” His hand tightened briefly over his thigh, knuckles white, the memory of his limp keeping him grounded. “So I’ll watch over you. Even if it tears me apart.”

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back, forcing his body to still. The forest seemed to wrap around the both of you, your shallow breathing and his pained silence the only sounds that filled the night.