The Bracken Woods don't look at me

It was like a sailor working with a boat full of holes; he skittered frantically around Alarian, stuffing moss where he could and replacing the patches too soaked to be of use. His ears flicked, half-listening to Delight and Lily, but most of his attention was focused on his brother's vitals. Was he still breathing? Did his heart still beat? That was most important.

"Come on, damn it, don't die on me," Zamael muttered fervently, pressing his head against a non-battered portion of pelt. Teeth gritted, he continued his ministrations for a while until everything was to his satisfaction. He stood back, breathing hard. Stalked over to Runion's piss-soaked head and kicked it, sending it rolling into the trees until it hit a rock with a muffled, wet thump.

Returning, favoring his paw, he scowled down at the trio. "Keep talking, keep talking," he demanded, his voice a hoarse grumble. "He can't fall asleep on us, now. He can get plenty of sleep later, when the bleeding has stopped." If the bleeding stops, said the little voice of doubt in his head.

Shut the fuck up, Zamael told himself, returning to his marigold poultices and beginning to apply them.