Naaghai Lowlands [m] triple dog dare

While Silvertongue slept, Wren did not.
Hourly through the last remnants of night and into dawn, she rose to check the wound; to reapply the coats of mud and clay which acted as a tourniquet, to chew plants and smother the area where once a leg had been. She kept her warm; kept her clean, tenderly washed the dust and oxidized crimson from the fibers of both the beloved's pelt and her own. She caught small prey, what little she could muster while not straying too far; two voles, a quail; all for when her lover's stomach eventually demanded it. She fed water in tiny drops, pearlets from the curve of leaves.
She knew not what to expect when Silvertongue awoke, if she awoke. What would be said between them; if there would be malice or relief. She did not know, did not, could not, but there was no space in her mind for fear or apprehension regardless.
She was still here.
The shrieking startles her away from staring, red-eyed, at the riverbed which now glitters with sunlight, and her gaze tears over to her lover — the agonizing realization has come to her. And there is nothing Wren can do. She opens her trembling arms in the offering of an embrace while her eyes gleam with wordless sorrow.