Hushed Willows [m] Blood on your knees, outside in the cold

she had done this.
she had done this to herself, she — he could see it now, the crimson that now rippled across her forearm. but he was not angry. he wanted to vomit, but he was not angry.
hey, hey, look at me, his voice instinctively lowers to the tiniest he can muster, tenderness pooling in the oakwood eyes. it's okay. i'm not mad at you, okay? you-- please, okay, don't be sorry, it's-- he was starting to cry now too, and he could feel it in the way it tugs at the corners of his mouth and the muscles in his chin. c'mere, let's-- we'll clean this up. c'mere.
he didn't need to, and yet he scoops her up into his arms and dips down into the lake himself, gathering what he can with his paws and his tongue.
it was all he knew how to do.