The Heartwood the comedy is that it's serious

He wanted to help. If he didn't want to help he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't have asked. He saw her discouragement, her lack of faith. The man grumbled inwardly, refusing to let her see his own discouragement. No, he couldn't pull herbs from the cold. All his precious resources were at the Glen.

And he didn't know, nobody did, how bad the open wound would be until he pulled out the splinter. Garlic helped stave infection off - that is what she asked. If she wanted to do it herself later, then she could. "Fine" he settled more readily, lowering his head and kept the venom from his tone.

Gripping the thorn in his teeth, he yanked. Blood poured from the wound almost immediately. At least that was clear. But he did take the bloody splinter and spit it away. Later he'd dig a hole for it, so no other wolf could be hurt. But the pain must be hard for Lane, so he instructed her now.

"Lick it" it would help calm her down, the shock would wear off eventually. But if she thought he'd leave her be, she was wrong. He sat there, his singular eye focusing on the bloody paw. He felt like a failure without his tools.