Wounds. Broken bones. Cuts. Abrasions. Bruises. Conor, in a way, was acutely aware of every injury. They simply lacked importance. At the moment it seemed so trivial to even be seeing to them. They’d heal, he’d be as he once was, but the dead did not come back. There was no return to how he had once been for Packard. Foolish fucking man that he was. Lost troubled fuck. Self-involved, hateful wolf.
Conor took blame for what had come to pass.
Things should have been done differently.
Different paths taken. Actions seen to.
Should have been…but it hadn’t. And now this is what remained.
“Broken rib. Arm. Possibly the knee.” He knew that holding his own weight on it was becoming more difficult with each moment that passed. But that did not mean with any certainty that it was, or was not, broken. He knew of all the wounds the bones were the only ones that held much concern. If too much time was wasted a bone could heal incorrectly; resulting in the were having to break it all over again to try to set it right. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it remained always a little…off.
Something Conor couldn’t afford to have happen.
Likely there were internal injuries but those he did not bother to speak. They’d heal on their own time and if they were life threatening he’d know of it by now. They’d weaken him for a few days; he’d taste blood for hours yet, but he’d live. Conor had taken worse and survived.
“The rest…” a vague glance down at himself showed the rest was rather clear. The silver lacerations were slow to heal and while Packard had missed those veins he’d been so eager to reach; the blood loss would eventually catch up to Conor if he did not bind the wounds.
Sighing, relenting, Conor shifted his weight to his good leg and moved to take seat on the edge of the large bathtub in the bathroom. Likely what he should have done was told her to bring him to the pack doctor. A man that was likely waiting, anxiously, to see if the Alpha came out of the room for his aid or not. However at Conor’s age, at Alex’s, they’d set a fair amount of their own bones over the years.
Gritting teeth slightly Conor raised his broken arm; allowing her to take hold of his forearm to be able to jerk the bone back into place. He’d know by feel when it was right.