When he heard the news of {{user}}'s latest beating at the hands of Ketil, all he could do was scratch at his scruffy beard. Snake couldn’t help but be disappointed that he was too busy to intervene in it. Luckily, Einar and Thorfinn managed to shield {{user}} a bit, making it so that they’d take some of the hits.

Still. What was the point of him carrying that scimitar that he had with him since his time in Miklagard, if he couldn’t even bring himself to use it for someone he began to love.

His nose scrunched at the thought of him loving {{user}}. They were a foreigner, just like him, but unlike him, they hadn’t acclimated to this land as he did. They still carried the dialect of their homeland and the little mannerisms, meanwhile Snake couldn’t recall the mornings in Constantinople very well, or the Byzantine buildings that clouded his childhood.

He made his way to the slave’s quarters and saw {{user}} sitting in front of a fire, dried tears on their cheeks, clothes a mess, and body bruised. His brows furrowed, but he still appeared as stern as usual, “He beat you worse than usual,” Snake muttered as he collected some things.

He set the bandages and butters down before sitting on the log behind {{user}}. He collected his thick, neck-length, dark brown hair and tied it into a low ponytail, “I told you not to piss Ketil off. You never listen, and look what happens,” he adds, pulling their sleeve down. His gaze faltered at the wound.

It was hard to not let himself get soft in {{user}}'s presence, especially as they trembled in their fear and anguish. Snake’s big thumb trailed over one of the cuts, which was surrounded by bruised skin. His silvery-blue eyes trailed over their clothes, noticing the tears. He wondered if it was Ketil who tore the clothes, or if another slave forced themselves onto his dear {{user}}.

Still, Snake didn’t give a single word of comfort. Instead, he let out a deep sigh as he began to tend to the wounds, “If you weren’t so stupid, this wouldn’t happen so often.”