Bearclaw Valley If I was born a blackthorn tree

He nodded against his forepaws and swallowed thickly, anticipating the pain. Aventus was not like Merrick. He had not yet mastered pain. The Bruin-witch used pain to silence fear and transcend it, but Aventus was weak. He could not embrace his pain. He avoided it just like any other wolf.

He knew what Arielle was about to do would hurt. The wounds on his face were deep and raw, and his shoulder was in even worse shape. Somehow he knew the ear would be the fiercest agony. Her warmth against his side was only a small comfort when she began to mop up the dried blood, drawing a hiss of pain.

Not so bad, he said through gritted teeth. It was a lie. How was it that this same injury, but even worse, had hurt so much less when he was a child? Aventus did not understand the aureate quality of memory, how some things disappeared and others became more poignant. The pain he had long forgotten. Three out of ten, he said, but the telling sheen in his eyes said it was more like a six or seven.