Herbalists' Cache The demon sat there waiting on her porch

Whatever power she had possessed, whatever enthusiasm for life or great unyeilding spirit that once characterized the force that was Tavi, it had almost entirely left her now. To move was a struggle; to stand still seemed impossible too, as her body was quivvering and quaking with uncontrollable fits even as she sat there against the tree. She did not taste the soil in her mouth nor smell the layers of detritus that clung to the rest of her — everything was moot. Tavi was pitiful. But she was not in pain, or if she was, she failed to grasp the concept. So when his voice came to her again — soft and careful, as if any one syllable would cause the house of cards to tumble in to the dirt — she remained rooted to the spot. 

To an onlooker, Octavia would have resembled an invalid of some sort. Perhaps an old and wretched wolf ready for the grave, or a grandparent being tended to by a descendant. Her eyes were glassy and she could not focus upon Stark even if she had wanted to, even if it was the last thing she must do before the end; and thus she continued to stare right through him, even as he led her away from the tree trunk with subtle touches, and purred his desperate truths. She would not understand, but perhaps she did not need to.

When Stark began to clean her, she became more antsy. Tavi saw the shadow dance around her face and move to poke and prod, to clean and make better, and like a fussing child she resisted him - even going so far as to close her mouth across his face when he was too close, although it was a very weak motion, and her teeth barely touched his fur before she pulled away and hummed her dissatisfaction. For a second or two she seemed to be trying to masticate the open air, and her eyelids drooped sleepily. The woman's tired body began to lean upon Stark's then, and in finding him to be a strong support (much like the tree, or the many friendships she had by this point lost), her body relaxed.