Broken ribs. Matted, sweaty hair. Arms and legs caked in dried blood. She holds herself carefully, like she's afraid that she'll break, but equally afraid to ask for the supplies to put herself back together. She's lovely, really. Positively angelic.
If it weren't for the bruises on her face and the smears of fresh blood on her shihakushou, she could pass for a princess.
It saddens Hanatarou to see her this way. Dull green eyes flash at him, quick as sparrow's wings, and nimble fingers take the bandages and antiseptic from his hands with a silent nod of thanks. No words, only movements, as sweetly sad and graceful as an autumn breeze. Always there, yet never paid attention to until it's gone.
He wants to help her, but she won't speak. It's obvious who's been doing this, but until she confirms it, no action can be taken. Her mouth is shut so tightly that he often wonders if her dry, craked lips are sewn shut. Her flat, nearly lifeless eyes reveal nothing, and most people are too unnerved by her to check if there's something deeper. No one knows whether these eyes hold a hidden spark. After a while, they gave up. There's no saving someone who won't admit that she needs to be saved, as Hanatarou knows. After all, he's no hero.
Hanatarou is a healer of the damned, and that's all he'll ever be.