Andromeda had been saved from the brink of death. And she wasn't sure if she was grateful for it.
Sure, she appreciated the dog's hard work at keeping her alive and stopping the flow of her blood. She was still so weak from losing so much of it that moving was difficult. She could just manage to raise herself up, planting her legs more underneath her so it raised her body more off the ground. For a few moments, she could keep this position before she could no longer support the weight of her and she had to go back to laying on her side with the feel of the tree against her back. If she wanted to turn over, to relieve that side of her, she needed the help of the wild dog who remained always at her side. A dutiful doctor to his patient.
It was clear he had a great love for everything and everyone around him. He cared for her very tenderly, as if she was a dead stalk of grass that had refused to bend or fall down, but stood as strong as it could until the smallest of cubs could snap it in two with ease. Most days, that's what she felt like. That the strongest breeze could snap her body in two, yet she felt so heavy that she'd surely sink like a rock if thrown into a lake. How he had done it, this wild dog without a name, was nothing short of a miracle in her eyes.
But maybe it'd have been best if he'd just left her to die. No amount of medicines and food cut small enough for her to manage could heal the internal wounds. The stress over what she had witnessed. The traumatic memories of all that bloodshed and cruelness. She even felt a bit guilty. Guilty for being alive while everyone else she had ever known was dead. She knew. She had seen the bodies as she hid, as she fled from the destruction. And she knew time would naturally heal these wounds. Maybe one day she'd be glad to have been saved. For now, the only thing keeping her going was the desire to not add her death to this dog's conscious. He seemed so kind and young and innocent. She didn't want to force these feelings of guilt and failure onto him, too, by letting herself reach the peace that she wanted. She would endure this. Because she had no choice.
And who knew. Maybe she'd come to truly appreciate what he'd done for her. Maybe she'd come to see it as a second chance. She surely could just as much as she might despise it for the rest of her life. She hoped she didn't. That would be such a waste of his talents, to save someone who never felt grateful for it.
Not that she could tell him this. Or even give a thank you. Still too weak to make more than a few senseless sounds, all she did to acknowledge him was a small smile or nod of her head when he helped redress her bandages or brought her food.
For Manahem's part, he understood. Or thought he did. He took her nods and smiles to mean she was wholly grateful for his helping her mend. He had no theories on her injuries. Could be anything, out here in the roguelands. Judging by the slashes on her body, it was a predator. Or predators. Likely another feline. Hyenas and dogs didn't use their claws for slashing as much as cats seemed to. But the reason for all of them was anyone's guess. She could have been the victim, she could have provoked a family. She could have been betrayed by a hunting party. Whatever it was, it wasn't really his place to ask, anyway. If she decided to tell him, she would. For now, her story wasn't his concern.
At least it wasn't until a few nights since he'd found her. Scuffling noises had woke Manahem up. Blinking, he quickly got to his feet, thinking it some opportunist thinking to take an easy kill in the weakened cheetah. But no, it was the cheetah herself. Her paws clenched and unclenched, the claws extending and retracting with each stretch of her toes. Her legs twitched, creating the sound he had heard as her limps moved on the ground, shuffling leaves around and stirring up the dirt. Finally, she gave a spasm and woke gasping in pain, her muscles stiffening. Manahem was at her side at once, working his paws over her body in an attempt to help massage out the pains.
When finally she seemed to relax, he backed off, just staring at her while she stared back at him. He wasn't sure what to say. That had clearly been a nightmare. A memory of whatever had done these things to her. He was merely a doctor of the body, not the mind. The only thing he could do was help a little with grief. He couldn't help with whatever horrible memories she was reliving as her eyes glazed over. After a while, she closed her eyes, drifting back into a sleep. He sat watching her for a little bit longer before he, too, settled back down to sleep.
Their time together remained in this pattern for weeks. While she could not talk to him, Manahem kept most of his own comments to himself, not wanting to burden her with the obligation to answer anything he said. He kept his speech to updates about her status and encouragements that she would pull through and be on her feet in no time. Every now and than, she'd have more of those nightmares. On those nights, he tried his best to be a comforting presence if she needed it. If he judged by the looks she gave him, he'd be right in thinking she needed it.
Slowly, with the relaxing company of the wild dog, Andromeda began to feel grateful to be alive. Or was she just getting used to the feeling that she owed it to him to keep trying to carry on? It didn't really matter. At least not at this point.
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