ancailleachnaheireann
Another sob passed the paling lips of the witch. It felt like he was dying multiple times over. Immortality was a bitch, and he was at the end of the stick. As if whoever did this to the male wanted him to go through the pain; the sheer fact that his tattoo was still in tact was a sure sign of it.
Once the warmth that radiated from what he considered family, a hand reached out, trying to find at least a piece of her arm. He wanted, almost craved assurance that it was Bast, or someone he could trust. The familiar smell barely was there; blood seemed to overpower his own sense of smell.
Soft sobs passed his lips, in between utterances of pain in both Gaelic and English; the pain slowly subduing due to the spells, whatever they were, that Bast was doing to help at least try to ease the pain of being beaten.
“Hurts sé bhasta , an oiread sin.” The male whimpered out, good hand still trying to find something to reassure him. He felt so cold. He didn’t want to die again.
She whispered sweet words to him to lull him away from the fiery pain pricking each nerve till it burned with agony. There was no way she could fluffy heal the man in such a short time yet she pushed what spells should knew pass her lips till there was sickening pops and cracks, bones snapping back into place.
Warm hands washed over his head and face trying desperately to calm the poor man of his pain yet she knew it did little but reassure that this was reality.
