Dragoncrest Cliffs I bet I could throw a football over them mountains.

Everything tasted like his own blood. He’d lost weight. Each time he ate, he had to debate whether opening the wound on his tongue was worth it. Improvement was there, but minimal. 

The bite on his shoulder had mostly scabbed over. He hadn’t realized just how bad his shape was until the next day. His moving consisted of walking to and from water. He was stiff, swollen, and broken. Each breath was fought for, his entire body recoiling. 

He’d made sure Phobos wasn’t wasting all of his time on him, often having to get aggressive with the wolf to shoe him out. As aggressive as he could get. Which, with Phobos, wasn’t very. 

He told him he’d be fine, but the reality was that he might not be, and if it meant living through much longer of this, he didn’t want to be. 

The fight wasn’t bad. A few years back he would’ve been back on his feet in a day or two at most. That was the hardest part of all of this.

Despite the other's consistent demands to be left alone, Phobos couldn't seem to manage the task that seemed so small. He loved him too much.

His own wounds were struggling to heal and he had been quite sore, but it was the fault of his illness. Any other wolf would have been fine, but living with such an ailment for so long he had grown to be tolerant of such pains.

Now he returned to the den shared by the pair with a new bundle of various herbs, his next cocktail in the attempts to cure Pepper's pains. Tail waving low and head bowed, he could only hope that he wouldn't be shooed away this time.

It was not often that Phobos cared for other's so deeply or took the time to listen to their demands. If it was anyone but Pepper, complaints would have been ignored - he would have been treated whether he liked it or not.

He was beginning to wonder if he should return to such a strategy.