The Sentinels long dead rows of daffodils and marigolds

Strength. Brig snorted. "You could call it strength, sure." His ear flicked again, remaining eye blinking once. He remembered it -- not that well, it hadn't been a traumatic experience. He couldn't feel it, after all. Only the itch that just wouldn't go away, and the faint pressure of his paw on his face, covering his eye as he clawed at the prickling sensation like he could carve it out. He supposed he had, in a way. But there hadn't been anything but that pressure, and when he drew his paw back there was blood and flesh and where he'd once been able to see there was -- not blackness, because he couldn't even see that. Just nothing.

More like it was just ignorance, a stupid kid with no understanding of the illness he'd been born with. Not that he knew much more now.

When the wolf motioned with his muzzle again, Brig turned his head a fraction, but he knew what was being pointed at this time without having to see. He and Adéwalé combed over his body every morning and evening to make sure he hadn't done anything stupid, and that was the only big scar left -- the mess that had been made of his hind leg, that looked like it was barely managing to continue being attached to the rest of him. But it was healed over, and he mostly forgot about it.

"That one -- no," he said. "I wasn't with Adéwalé -- my friend -- and I walked into a bear trap." His lips quirked in an embarassed grin. "What it didn't do, I did, prying it off."