Whitewater Gorge wyrd bið ful āræd

he does not flinch when the hands grab him—though his body tenses, breath sharp through his nose. not from fear. from instinct. but he lets it happen; lets the smaller man move his head, command his body for this short time.
for moments, eyes flutter closed to silently endure this pampering. letting the seconds pass by, but then comes impatience and brown eyes reopen to settle upon the man's face.
his eyes track cicero’s every move, heavy-lidded but alert. it is as if raedwulf is looking heavily upon him now, seeking to observe the smallest and most minute of details. wanting to look into his soul and see the boy-shaped man for what he was.
wyrm in þǣm flǣsce, raedwulf remarks, gesturing then with large, pale paw to the wound that had begun to fester upon his face. it would certainly leave a permanent mark. one of his people's metaphors for infection of the flesh.
when the root is nudged toward him, he eyes it with mild suspicion—then, after a beat, takes it. the man bites down, chews slowly, making a disgusted face and squinting eyes as the bitterness coats his tongue and throat. muttering his complaints with gravel-deep voice. looking over at the smaller man from where he had hunched over, huffing from his thick nostrils. þū hǣlst. iċ þancie þē.
pushing his paw against his own chest, then gesturing outwards from where his heart nestled. raedwulf, he introduces, guthrices sunu.