Dronia’s protest was a brittle shield, and Anri was determined to cleave through it. Moving as swiftly as her armoured form would permit, she knelt beside her companion, reaching out to touch the hand stubbornly sealing the wound.
Behind ivory ribs and steel plating, Anri’s heart clenched. Dronia’s battle-ready and capable body had betrayed her, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her skin clammy beneath the streaks of dirt and blood. Her gaze darted away, evasive, as if ashamed of her vulnerability.
“Enough,” Anri murmured, her soft voice carrying a stern undercurrent, one rarely heard. With hands gentle and deft, she carefully pried Dronia’s fingers away from where they plugged the wound. Blood bubbled hot and immediate against Anri’s palm. Too much of it, too quickly. Her throat tightened with a familiar, second-hand pain – one that always pierced her whenever she witnessed another’s suffering.
“You would never permit another to press on in this state, and I will not permit it of you,” Anri continued, her attention sliding to their surroundings. They were alone, walled in on all sides by dense forest. Hardly ideal, but they would make do.
“Allow me to tend to you, to make you comfortable,” Anri implored, her focus settling back on Dronia. Through the leather of her gauntlet, she was aware of that raw heat, of the life’s blood that soaked her. In its loss, there was an urgency that could not be ignored. “We can make camp here, you can rest.”
