The forest was quieter than usual.

Snow hadn’t yet come, but the air held the promise of it, sharp in the lungs and heavy on the wind. Eagle Flies moved silently through the underbrush, his bow slung over his shoulder, his eyes alert but soft.

They had set out before sunrise, just the two of them. {{user}} had insisted. Said they needed the air, the peace, the break from the noise of the camp. He’d agreed without argument. He always did when it came to them.

Now the sun was climbing slow behind the trees, casting gold light over bark and frost. And they were no longer walking beside him.

There had been no cry, no warning—just a sharp gasp and the sudden thud of a body hitting earth. When he turned, he saw {{user}} curled around their ankle, one hand gripping their boot, the other planted in the damp leaves for balance.

“I’m fine,” they muttered, jaw clenched.

“You’re not,” he said, kneeling beside them. “Let me see.”

They didn’t fight him, but they didn’t meet his eyes either. When he touched their ankle, even gently, their breath hissed through their teeth. Swollen already. Not broken, but no walking on it—not through this terrain. Not for miles.

“I can walk,” they said again.

“No,” he said. “You can’t.”

He didn’t wait for permission.

Eagle Flies stood and leaned down, slipping an arm beneath their knees, another around their back. They tensed—he felt it in their shoulders, in their fingers as they clutched at his coat—but they didn’t protest aloud.

They were lighter than he’d expected.

Or maybe his mind was focused on getting them back home ? He wasn’t sure.

They moved through the woods like that—him carrying them, boots crunching against leaves, their weight steady in his arms. The hunt was forgotten. No deer, no pelts, no meat. Only the warmth of them close, the way they shifted now and then to adjust but never told him to put them down.

“You don’t have to act like this,” they murmured once, voice low. “Like I’m something fragile.”

“You’re not,” he said. “But you are hurt.”

They looked at him for a long while after that, lips parted like they had something else to say. But nothing came.

The sun moved overhead. His arms began to ache, but he didn’t let it show. He would carry them until nightfall if needed. Longer. As long as they let him.