So, I don't know what this is, or where it is going. I felt compelled to write after being overjoyed that there are readers that follow my writing. This is for you. This is an original work of which I do not have an outline for. That being said, I do not know how long it will be, or how often I will update it. I am at a loss for a better title. If you, reader, think of something better suited. Please allow me to consider it. And, I have no beta.
Trigger warning for violence, possibly non-consensual, implied, abuse, etc. If I missed anything that may possibly be triggering, please, please, please, let me know. I will try and keep triggers to a minimum, and will try and remember to make sure they are in place.
Italics are either an internal monologue or dialogue, or a flashback.
Artio is a bear goddess in Celtic mythology. She is the goddess of nature, fertility, bears and was worshiped in the region of Gaul.
A FOUND HOME
xoxoxo
The Fall
Pain, and a lot of it. Searing, blind, broken body pain is what she feels when she begins to regain consciousness. Pain that colors her vision in a wide bleeding rainbow that she can taste. A heavy metallic flavor that runs in small rivulets of silver and ash down the back of her throat, and she doesn't know if she'll ever be able to look at a rainbow again with unwavering awe. And suddenly she wants very much to be unconscious again, even if she is in fact alive, because no one should ever suffer this kind of soul crushing torture. Not even during the time of The Making did she feel this kind of agony.
When it happened I was all, this hurts so bad. I was in tears for a week. Because I really wanted to die. The first month after I hatched was the worst. I had these, these wings. I had grown another half foot in height, and no longer resembled the middle-aged overweight black woman that I was at sixty years old. I "looked" like I might have the ability to fly. The wings, though at the time I didn't find them pleasant at all, they were heavy, and I could barely stand, let alone walk. I was gangly, like an adolescent. I had become something of a metahuman, only better. Only I didn't realize it at the time. I was beyond miserable.
The memory of her current pain comes to her in small snatches, between those brief moments of consciousness where she can't decide if she's dying or not, and what feels like a memory. A bad memory that is the equivalent of a nightmare, where she is eight years old and drowning in a hotel swimming pool while on a family vacation. And she knows she is screaming while water fills her lungs, and she is struggling to grab onto anything, arms and legs flailing through water and air, but there is nothing. Then someone she doesn't know, doesn't recognize, pulls her from the deep end of the pool and to safety. And she is hugging the side of the pool, small fingers a death grip on a concrete and tiled edge, and she is breathing on her own.
Today, she remembers blue sky all the way to the horizon. Prior to the moment when everything went south, it was an absolutely beautiful day. Air just crystal and clean. Beautiful days like this one so rare. She was floating on the updrafts of warm air along the cliff face, and then swinging out over the forest, wings outstretched as if the tips could touch that very same horizon. And in the blink of an eye she is eight years old again and flailing. Reaching again for the thing that will keep her from dying, except this time there is no one to save her. There is no pool wall to cling to. But there is a blazing white pain encompassing the whole right side of her ribcage, as she can barely draw breath. And somewhere for a mere microsecond, she finds humor and the smallest of smiles as she recognizes the irony that she is drowning in air.
Blackness, then semi-conscious, then pain. Falling, into a searing bath of pain, the blood in her veins moving at such a speed, it scorches the air she falls through. And she wonders when the falling will stop. It is too much. The deafening roar of air blasts her ears, and her ears burn from a screeching sound that fills them. Her mind registers another sharp stab, more, white hot pain, and then she is screaming because the trees, and the earth are rushing up to smash her in their grasp. And with a frantic desperation, she is scrabbling to hold onto something, someone? And she remembers, Protect the girl. And there is an arm, and her wings wrap tightly around them both just as her body breaches the top of the boughs. Boughs that break and snap her bones, more than they break her fall. She can taste the bile mixing with her distress, with every limb and branch she strikes on the way to ground. Tree limbs tearing body from skin. She feels as though layers of her body have separated into distinct categories of skin, muscle, bone, sinew. And those are only the ones she is conscious of. Darkness. Cold.
A fever. It must be a fever, for her head is pounding, and she is bodily hot to the point of combustion. Amongst those brief moments when she comes up from the darkness for air, she can tell, her body is battling itself. Always with the fighting. She is so tired of fighting, and this time she is struggling against an infection that has set into her very core. She wants to die, she just doesn't know how. And she has died so many times. Maybe this time, as her body settles into a series of intermittent shakes and convusions, long spindly fingers of darkness, crushing pain, and she can feel her screams. Darkness.
She is certain her eyes are open, they sort of feel as if they are open; grainy after a long rest. Not the graininess that fills your eyes that comes from being tossed in a ditch and dirt and trash tossed upon your corpse, half buried. No, there appears to be less darkness. More like the shadows that come from being buried under a ginormous pile of leaves in the fall, when she is supposed to be helping her father rake leaves. Prefering instead, to roll amongst the pile, her nostrils working out the the earthy and musty smell of dried leaf and soil. It is a passing thought to her and more than a single lifetime ago.
The light she thinks she sees is more of a dark gray with patches of illumination. So perhaps her eyes are open. She shifts her body a fraction and hisses, and just as suddenly there are tears trickling down her face, saltwater seeping into still shredded skin. She is definitely alive, she thinks. She scrunches her eyes closed again, against immense pain. She is lying on her back, propped up somehow, labored breathing has her praying to a spirit she no longer believes in to take her soul, as death would be a blessing in this moment.
She never knew that pain could be so loud, and she wants to grab her head and press the heels of her hands against her ears, to stifle the loudness of her heartbeat, the rushing of blood she can hear in her veins, and bring silence to her world. And she feels damaged and broken in a way that seems irreparable, different from the other times that she has been injured.
She flinches as someone presses a damp rag to her mouth and there is an odd but soothing sound, encouraging her to suck on the rag and drink what she can. And she thinks that she is smiling, because she is floating into a new darkness, and it can only be death answering her plea.
Her eyes flutter open and stay open, and she realizes two things: Death has kicked her to the curb which is possibly a good thing; and she hurts less, which is even better. And while she is pleased the pain has subsided, she is hesitant to move, remembering the horrific pain she felt before. Therefore, she remains still, allowing her eyes to roam and take in what she can of her surroundings. She thinks it might be daytime, the light very natural, even though the area she rests in is behind a veil. She thinks maybe a cave, or a shelter that is cave-like.
She is lying slightly propped up, able to look down the length of her body, finding herself swaddled in bandages from sternum to ankle. Nothing weird about that, at all. Someone took great care in making sure that she is not lying flat against her wings. Not that that matters anymore. It's possible that they are broken beyond repair, and wouldn't that suck. Because after several years she has grown accustomed to them. But there are cushions supporting her entire back, elevating her just enough that her wings have a bit of breathing room. Just the thought of her wings causes them to rustle slightly and she grimaces. She is definitely still broken. She allows her eyes to shutter close, and picture the rest of her body in her mind's eye. Her body feels stiff. Even without the bandaging she would find it so. With no idea of how long she has been recuperating, she manages to raise an index finger on her right hand and tap it slowly against the surface of the cushions she is lying on. One finger becomes two, then four, then all tapping at once until she can drum the fingers of both hands. The movement slow and deliberate.
Somehow she manages a small smile and makes two fists, incorporating her wrists into her exercise drawing small circles with them, against her hip. The muscles in her arms soon tire and she allows the beautiful darkness that is sleep, rather than death, claim her again, confident that she will wake.
She is awakened by the smell of food. At least she thinks it's food. She is free of the bandages and covered by a sheet from the waist down, and lying almost face down in the bed she has occupied for she knows not how long. She tests her ability to move her wings, the weight of them against her back feels like a hug that could last forever, but the muscle memory is there and they appear to move of their own accord. She rubs her face with her hands scrubbing at it with her palms, her lungs filling with an obscene amount of air. She revels in the fact that the pain has more than subsided. There is a shuffling beside her and when she opens her eyes she smiles, The girl is safe. But then she is frowning because the girl has a cast on her left leg.
"Ah, my little songbird." Almond shaped eyes peer deep into the woman's own. Determined hazel eyes search the woman's face in recognition, as tiny hands begin caressing her face. They are cool and soft and tender against her skin, gingerly brushing away tears she was not aware were falling. The girl touches their foreheads together and a trilling sound fills the air.
"I know, I know." The woman reached out with her hands and drew the girl into an embrace. "I'm so sorry. I did not protect you as I should have, and you were hurt because of it." The trill sound dropped a tone and the girl purred, nuzzling the woman's face as she worked to calm the woman's anxiety. She found herself easing back on her bed, making room for the girl to snuggle in next to her, the rhythmic purring pushing the woman towards a calm. Teetering again on the verge of sleep, the weight of her young charge a balm to her soul, she registers the sound of footsteps padding toward them. The woman found the strength to sit up, pushing the young girl gently behind her, as she swings her legs to the floor. Her wings bracketing the girl's body, shielding her. The woman grits her teeth against the wave of dizziness that rocks her, cursing herself for sitting up so quickly. She presses bare feet hard against a stone floor, fighting back the wave of nausea that feels determined to rise.
The girl wraps tiny arms loosely around the woman's neck, the woman lifts her left hand unbidden, stroking the girl's arm. Her purring remains constant.
"How can you know that?" The woman turns her head slightly searching out the girl's eyes. Hazel colored eyes sparkle with confidence, and the girl smiles. The woman let out an annoyed huff. "Fine. But if I end up in a pot of vegetables for chicken soup. I'm going to make sure the cook makes you into an appetizer." The girl trills a response, her smile never fading.
xoxoxo
The woman found the strength to stand, the sheet piling up at her feet. The veil turned out to be a sizeable drape of curtain, and was pulled aside by the young girl as she drag limped her way past her guardian who made a clumsy attempt to pull her back. The woman maintained a shaky balance, drawing herself up to her full height, legs unsteady, folded wings threatening to scrape against the stone ceiling of her room. She closed her eyes, her hands bunching into fists at her sides as she took a deep breath.
Opening her eyes once again she looked down at her right hand where the girl had managed to slip her fingers in, loosening the woman's grip.
"I am fine little one. Thank you." The woman looked up from the floor slowly, allowing her eyes to gather as much information as they can, until she meets the eyes of her host. Her mouth falls open at the sight and a barely there gasp escapes her. She has seen many types of people, mutants, and meta humans. The good, the bad, and downright scary. She smiles to herself. Westerns. But the woman before her was good. She was very good and easy on the eyes. Ever so slightly taller than she herself, the woman had skin that shimmered in multiple shades of copper and earth. Shoulder length black hair was tied loosely in a ponytail, revealing a face that was difficult to judge, what with her skin being so many shades of brown, and orange, and hints of red clay. Red clay that was native to the midwest where she grew up, but doesn't exist anymore. And her skin appeared to move. From what she could see that wasn't covered by the sleeveless ivory shift she wore with matching pants. She realizes its the colors themselves, moving as if the sun dappled the earth through bough covered trees with an easy breeze. She leaned back, her wings supporting her as she stood mesmerized. As she stares at the other woman, she thinks she hears someone talking, but she might as well be hearing someone talking through a pillow. It's muffled and garbled and just annoying the crap out of her. She shakes her head, only to look up and find the other woman is waving a hand in front of her face to get her attention. She blinks and her wings open and flutter, as much as space allows She then re-folds them against her back, tucked, calm. There is another gentle squeeze of her hands.
The woman is gesturing to her. She has stuck out her index and middle fingers of both hands, forming an 'X', and tapping one set atop the other making a chopping motion. She frowns slightly and cocks her head to one side not immediately understanding what is being requested. Her child tugs on her hand, tapping her own chest.
"Ah." She pressed a hand to her chest. "I am Mina." It was her host's turn to now frown. "You're right, not the name I was given. But I was born before the time of The Making, and that name, the one I was born with, is no longer applicable." Her host nodded. "And this little one here is known as Tori." Her host cleared her throat and motioned to Mina, waving a hand up and down to indicate that she was still naked.
"Oh, that." Tori giggled and picked up the sheet, handing it up to her. "No, little one. This is only good for when I'm lying down." Mina looked to her host. "I don't suppose my clothes survived?" The woman shook her head in the negative. Her host held up her hands, palms toward her guest indicating for her to wait a moment. She left the room and returned quickly with a bundle of clothing in hand, along with a pair of scissors. Her host laid out several pieces of clothing on the bed. Mina fingered a dark brown drawstring leather vest, the material sliding easily between her fingers, like warm butter the fabric was so soft. But she also cast a wary eye at her host, scissors still in hand. She really disliked sharp objects.
xoxoxo
The Host
Sparrow. That is what she has gone to calling herself. In the Before Time she was Edie, but anyone who knows her from then, she hasn't talked to or seen, with any frequency. Now she is a singer of songs, now she has a different voice. Now she has almost no voice. Not since the men came and took most of her voice from her. She hugs herself against a very ugly memory, wiping a stray tear with the heel of her right hand. There is a scar that reaches from under the left side of her jaw, to the outer angle of the right side of her collarbone.
Sparrow waded into the shallows of the creek, water swirling gently around her knees. She was gathering in her fishing traps from the previous day, when a shadow passed overhead. Raising a left hand against the midday sun, and closing the same eye, she squinted against the glare. The same shadow passing in silhouette against the blue. Hunh. A winged mutant. She followed its flight pattern as best she could, most of her view blocked by the trees themselves. Sparrow shrugged her shoulders and bent back down to her work. She thought about the few dealings that she has had with other people, she had heard talk of winged creatures that appeared after The Making, had heard that there was a bounty to be had for their hide, wings ground up as an aphrodisiac. A lot of mumbo jumbo as far as she was concerned, but the rumors she had heard did not bode well for those creatures. So she was completely surprised to see one in the middle of the day.
Her catch was small this day, but enough to get her through the remaining week. She would smoke a portion to add to her food stores, maybe trade the midwives for the herbs she cannot find. She was working on resetting her traps when she heard the first whistle of an arrow. It was far and high off, She heard three more arrows break the sound of the air in quick succession, then such a high pitched screech she collapsed into the creek, covering her ears. She resurfaced from the chill water at a crawl, sputtering, fingers digging into and clinging to the bank, grateful that she was still conscious. She emerged in time to hear the direction the crash of branches emanated from. Shit! Sparrow looked at her catch, then to the direction of the crash. She grit her teeth, hissing and blowing curses to no one. Sparrow tossed her catch back into the stream and gathered her things quickly. She could eat, or she could save a life but she couldn't do both. Not today.
It was unusual to find hunters, particularly the human variety, so far in to what most considered, mutant territory. The line of demarcation of what was technically neutral territory, was fuzzy at best. Still, Sparrow ran on silent footfalls, ears straining to hear the approach of human voices. She broke onto a clearing, one that didn't exist until a few moments ago. She grabbed her face, clamping a hand over her mouth at the two bodies lying amongst the debris of branches and limbs. The larger of the two, the winged creature appeared to be a woman, and in death, still cradled a smaller body in her arms. Her wings locked firmly around a smaller body, a small misshapen leg jutting out to one side. It was the whimpering of the smaller one, struggling against the wings encapsulating it, that spurred Sparrow to action.
Sparrow began pulling at the branches that created part of the pile, tossing them off as she worked her way in close enough to put a hand on the smaller creature. Unsure, Sparrow surmised that this one too was female. What she could see was instead of skin, the young thing had a light brown coat of fur. A very coarse coat of it that was only about two inches in length. As she struggled to free the girl, Sparrow noticed a goodly amount of blood darkening the earth beneath her feet. Enough blood to indicate that the creature at her feet was dead. But she had learned since the AfterTimes, that dead didn't always mean dead. But several things happened simultaneously as she reached in to take a pulse at the woman's jugular. An arm shot out from the body at her feet, a bloodied hand wrapping a death grip around her right wrist, The screeching she heard earlier was beginning again, coming from the girl. And Sparrow found herself trying to break free of the death grip, and cover her ears at the same time, going so far as to use one of her shoulders to close the gap. And the sound of a hunting party could be heard not far afield. Sparrow balled her hands into fists, squeezing her eyes shut. The screeching pressing shards of pain through her head. Focus, focus, focus! She felt her hand slip free of the woman's grip, and silence was suddenly all that was heard. Not a whisper of leaf, no scritching of rodents that passed for squirrels in the underbrush, no sound of life. Sparrow hummed. She hummed an old Italian lullaby she remembered from her childhood, the creatures suddenly asleep at her feet. It was temporary, and she hoped it lasted long enough to get them to safety. She dragged the back of her hand across her face, wiping at her nose, startled by the smear of blood. The girl? There was no time to wonder about that.
Sparrow ran her hands up into her hair, eyes wide, incredulous. Looking all the world as if pressing her hands into her scalp she could hold her thoughts in place, thinking on her next move as she stared at the two creatures at her feet.
Sparrow drops her arms, breathing out a heavy sigh. "Okay. You can do this." The woman craned an ear towards the now sluggish sound of machinery. Machines, she could not control. But the men that operated them, yes. She just needed time.
Sparrow got to work, rooting around in her satchel for what few first aid supplies she had handy. Working quickly, she made up for the shortage by gathering roots, moss, and herbs to create a medicinal paste to staunch the flow of the most severe bleeding. Her task completed, she moved on to the next.
Machete in hand she went to work on the salvageable tree branches, stripping them of their excess limbs until she had two fairly straight poles for rigging a litter. Sparrow hummed a new melody as she struggled to heft the two bodies onto the litter. When she was done, looking over her shoulder and emerging from the shadows of the cliff wall came a large brown bear. Even walking on all fours she towered over Sparrow.
"Artios." Sparrow stood her ground as the bear approached, cupping her hands along its muzzle as it closed the distance between them. It huffing and scenting her as it nosed into her face, Sparrow resting her forehead against it as it did so. The bear nodded its' assent to Sparrow's silent request. As the animal laid down, Sparrow dropped a hastily constructed harness over the bear's head, the bear swinging its mammoth head back and forth as she adjusted it. The animal again rose up on all fours, this time dragging the litter as they made their way silently through the forest.
With the Bathwater
The woman clings to the shadows, a steady rain falling as she manuevers her way amongst the buildings. She is a mass of tattered cloth and broken body, shuffling close to the walls, as if doing so would stay the rain from her shoulders. Relics they both are, she, and what evidence remains of civilization from the Before Time. And while there is no rehabilitation or renovation for the structures left behind, she is one of those who was remade.
There are still some who choose to live in the remains of the structures that she passes, humans mostly. Humans that cling blindly to a past that has no chance of returning.
Most non-humans, or otherwise have moved out, been chased away, even hunted into the shallow parts of the wilderness. A wilderness that was doing a fine job of reclaiming what was once entirely hers, before the advent of man. But this particular evening, the woman in the shadows is looking for food. Raised in Suburbia, then lived and worked in a metropolis, she is still learning how to survive the wilderness, having escaped from the humans that had enslaved her. And surviving at the moment means she must occasionally risk forays in to what remains of any cities or towns. She does her level best to remain to the fringe areas of the town she has only recently stumbled upon, sifting through the detritus for scraps of food. All the while, the rain, unrelenting in its all night assault, has created a rancid slow rising stream she finds herself slogging through. She continues her search, knowing full well that this night's hunt may prove futile.
It is while she stops to rest, leaning up against an old garbage dumpster that she hears a whimpering so faint it is almost concealed by the rain itself. Pushing back what's left of the lid, she struggles to make out the origin of the sound, it's difficult, rain sluicing down her face, blurring her vision as it continues to catch on her lashes. She grimaces as she swings an arm down into the unknown space of the container, snatching it back quickly when her hand runs through something slimy. The fetid odor released begs for her to gag, and she steps away to catch her breath. But the whimpering is insistent and frightened, and the woman presses on. Finding a wooden crate to stand on, she hoists herself up and over the lip of the dumpster, careful of her foot placement, because there is something alive amidst the rotting contents of the dumpster. And as her feet sink into those same rotting contents, squelching through and around her toes, she is knee deep when her body finally relents. Gripping onto the lip of the dumpster she hangs her head over the side, losing what little bit of food she carried in her stomach. She turns her head and rests a cheek against the chilled metal, oddly it makes her feel less shitty as she spits the remnants of vomit into the dark. Gathering a new breath, she stands again, using both hands to rake through the sludge, gamely trying to make the breath she has taken, last, and failing. But there is nothing left for her body to heave and she squeezes her eyes tight, trying to survive the stench as she grits her teeth against the smell.
After several more agonizing moments, her hands finally come to rest against a very small body tucked into the back wall of the container. Feeling around its body to gain some indication of its size, she snatches it up from the muck, gripping it to her chest like a lifeline. In doing so she can feel it's heart beating rapidly against her own body, and there is a warmth she feels seeping into the tatters she wears, uncertain of its origin.
With her bundle now pressed up against her right shoulder, and her left hand again gripping the lip of the dumpster, she manages to cartwheel over the edge, landing flat on her back with a grunt. And she lies there, content that the water she is lying in is a leap cleaner than the dumpster. With no desire to drown, the woman rolls them both over, pushing up onto one hand and her knees, pressing herself up into a standing position. She raises her face skyward, allowing the water to cleanse her face, breathing in short breaths as she seeks to ground herself, a protective hand shielding the head of the one she holds in her arms. One final deep breath, and she retraces most of her steps, out of the town, returning to the wilderness.
It's a Start
"I owe you an offering, my friend." Sparrow smiled, nuzzling into the great bear's neck. "I will leave you a ration of fish, yes?" The creature nudged her gently and trudged slowly off, disappearing into the evening shadows.
Sparrow finished filling a vat with water, having pushed it as close to the hearth as possible. That done, she stoked the fire in the hearth, layering in logs and building it to a roaring pitch, the heat quickly filling the small cavern they were in. Sparrow stripped herself of her clothing, tossing it aside, a thin sheen of sweat peppering her skin. She dragged a pallet near enough to the hearth to give herself adequate light and room to work.
Standing over her guests, she took a deep breath, kneeling down beside the pair. Humming again, she pried the wings of the woman open, cooing gently when she felt resistance to her efforts. The woman's arms fell to her side, along with her wings, and Sparrow eased the smaller one free, scooping her up and placing her gently on the pallet.
Sparrow marvelled at the girl's skin? Which wasn't so much skin, as it had more of a fur, semi hair like quality. No more than a couple of inches in length, its deep, almost sunset yellow, covered her from head to toe. Her face the only thing not covered in hair, and it was ovate, eyes that she could not see, appearing to be wide set.
Sparrow worked quickly, looking for any injuries more obvious than the broken left leg the young thing was sporting. "Hmm, nary a scratch." She ran her hands gently down the girl's body, keeping an eye on her face for a sign of grimace, Sparrow knowing it was going to be the only indicator that she was hurting. As Sparrow continued her survey, she was surprised to find nothing more serious than a nick of skin on her right shoulder, not even enough to warrant bandaging. She took a quick glance over to her other patient, marveling at the fact that she was able to save the girl's life and still managed to draw breath, as she watched the labored rise and fall of the woman's body. Well, she would tend to her soon enough.
Alternating her shoulders, she used them to wipe each side of her face, pressing sweat rivulets dribbling down with nowhere to go, to each side of her face. Another deep breath and she began on the broken leg. She began a quiet non-sensical tune to herself. A distraction for her thoughts as she palpitated the leg. She heard the girl moan from her unconscious state as she felt around the worst part of the break. "Not too bad, little one. We will get you fixed up in no time." Sparrow set about splinting the leg, careful not to manipulate it more than necessary. Once satisfied, she wrapped it in bandages from ankle to high thigh. The girl continued in sleep, leg gingerly padded with cushions as Sparrow dragged the pallet away from the hearth to where one could just feel the heat.
Taking a deep breath, Sparrow dunked her head into the vat, also using the moment to wash her hands anew. Emerging from the water, she squeezed as much of her hair as possible, tying it back with a bit of leather thong. She glanced over her shoulder at her winged patient, and inhaled a deep breath. Sparrow toweled her skin dry, sweat escaping her even though the heat from the hearth had alleviated some. And she still had quite a bit of work to accomplish to her second patient.
Sparrow pressed herself up from her knees. Walking by a low shelf to the right of the fireplace, she stopped to grab several jars of herbs, several bowls, and a dark wooden mortar and pestle. Setting them out on the table, she worked quickly and efficiently, measuring, pouring, and sifting herbs. Blending them together gently until she had a thin dark paste. Sparrow knew she would need to make more, but she acknowledged to herself that first, she had to get the woman through the next twenty four to forty eight hours. Sparrow brought her medicine from the table to beside what she settled on her patient being a woman, or at least female.
As Sparrow moved about she took time to further assess the woman's injuries. The fall alone was an automatic death sentence for almost one hundred percent of the population. But these were newer times. "Newer times indeed." She hummed a new melody, pushing the woman into a deeper stasis. She massaged the medicinal compound she created into the more serious open wounds, wrapping them easily from a memory from the Before Time. Instantly berating herself for falling into the past. "You promised." Sparrow chewed on her lower lip. "Don't look back. Those times have come and gone, and are not coming back." Sparrow heaved a deep breath and concentrated on her work once more.
With the bleeding once again mostly controlled, Sparrow moved on to setting the woman's multiple fractures. Her right arm, surprisingly, was intact from breaks, sporting only a couple of open wounds. Sparrow guessing that that was the arm clutching the child to her, as they fell. Working well into the night, and fighting her own fatigue, Sparrow sets a right leg femur, casts the woman's left leg completely, and somehow manages to wrap her rib cage. She has no idea how to repair the wings themselves, though the damage to them appears minimal considering how severely the rest of the woman's body was damaged.
Sparrow tossed the remnants of her work, and her patients' clothing onto the fire, as there was nothing to be saved. Neither was going to require much in the way of clothing in the coming days.