Of course he's bleeding; it was more than hard enough for that. I shove him over onto his stomach and listen to him cough as his throat heals and he's able to draw a full breath again; I get the leather around his wrists untied. He slides his arms underneath his head and stretches, letting out a sound I haven't heard from him in a year.
Bliss. Contentment. Satisfaction.
"You--" There's no word in our current language that suits what I want to call him now, and so I give him a few choice curses in a tongue that's older than either of us. I'm never going to win with him.
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