Why had he allowed her so willingly? Jefferson dipped his head, his eyes to the creaking floorboards and considered it during her continued hesitance; he had met hundreds in his time as a leader, let alone his time as a member of a pack, yet so few had ever expressed interest in his scars and wounds. They had all gaped at the sight of him, as they always would, but so few had questioned what demons he had been plagued with that allowed him to live, a monster in and of himself. And yet he knew that if they asked he would blame it on fights and bears for their ears, but in his mind the blame lay on himself for the sins he had committed, a bodily retribution for the many lives he'd taken or traumatized forever. No amount of scars, no level of ungodly pain in a useless limb could give them back their lives.
Finally she reached for the tender skin and scars on his arm; the touch there was foreign and the useless muscles within jerked instinctively, but relaxed them quickly and allowed her to satisfy her curiosities. Not many had dared to ask, let alone touch, that scarred arm that seemed to now define him as a tamed ex-killer, now unable to fight in the ways he once had so brutishly. The scars of his face frowned, but at her touch his green eye eventually wandered back, shadowed, morose, listless. No words came to him, and no words came to her, and just as quickly as she reached for his wounds, she withdrew her hands and backed away. A horror lingered in her eyes that went unsaid, though he chose to read them as he assumed them to be: His arm, his useless scars, were beyond earthly medicine. He had known it all along, and yet Jefferson had allowed her to touch him and inspect. Why? Why had he chosen to hope, even so briefly, that perhaps there was still a chance he would be able to run again, to move without jerking limps and trips?
"I should go," he said finally, his voice grim. A shame lingered within it, but the sound was devoid of anger or resentment. She had done nothing to him, fixed nothing of his pain with her medicine, but he harbored no regret. The rain outside had quieted, diminished now to a slight drizzling mist, and Jefferson sauntered stiffly for the door, his shoulders hanging even as he assisted his arm back into its damp sling.
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