Barrow Fields shine a light into the wreckage

there was movement, and then mahler drew in a sharp hiss of breath as soft tongue touched the tender torn places of his leg, where the dark wolf in the field had sundered it with his teeth. a growl snaked to warn his savior that care must be taken; mahler considered himself a man of control, but this pain was trying even to his patience.
a flick of his tongue granted the bitter seeds control of his wounded frame, and soon the musiker had grown placid, agony muted by the cloudthick tremble of the drug in his blood. through slitted lilac eyes he watched the wavering form of the angel minister to him, smelled the green scent of the herbs used. and when it was over, mahler lay his cheek against the snow, and pondered the other for long moments that stretched on and on endlessly.