Back in the village, Fena knelt on the floor, her hands working on Serian's ankle. The poultice she applied was dark green and smelled of crushed leaves and damp earth.
"This will sting," she stated, not looking up from her work.
"I can handle it," Serian said, wincing as the poultice made contact with her swollen skin.
Fena finished her work and began wrapping the ankle with a clean, white cloth. Her movements were efficient, but also careful. "The bone is mending. But it will take time. You will not be walking on this for at least a week."
Serian watched the older elf's hands. "Thank you for your help."
Fena tied off the bandage and sat back on her heels. Her eyes, dark and sharp, finally met Serian's. "I am not helping you. I am ensuring my prisoner does not perish from a preventable injury."
Serian's back went stiff. "I am not your prisoner."
