Maija | Healing touch [Wahya]

It is sometime in the early morning on Friday, hours after Thursday is long ago. The Uktena had said he’d return in a day. Fortunately, for him no bears were hurt in the process. Wahya is a wolf on a mission, persistent to return to the young charge that he offered his care to. He had promised to bring something back to heal her and Wahya succeeded in this endeavor, thanks to a Shadow Lord that he’ll likely owe some debt to.

In the early hours, the Uktena approaches the apartment building that he had seen the injured kinfolk sitting out on the front steps. One hand held out with a blue colored string dangled from between his fingers, a turquoise stone was tethered to it, swinging at a near 90 degree angle to point at the door. He cups the stone in the palm of his hand, entering the building. He begins to trace a slow path up the steps, following the pale blue stone as it swings in a certain direction, pausing at the entrance of each hallway that would lead down a row of doors.

He finally stops at the right hallway, the stone swinging left and then back to its position. He feels the slight tug, slipping his way down that hall. The quiet thuds of his boots echo with each footfall until they finally stop at what he perceives to be the right door.

Wahya lifts his red stained hand up to the hood of his sweater jacket, tugging it back from his skull. Tiny braids spill out, most of it gathered back from his face under a long strip of cloth (probably a torn up tee shirt) fashioned into a bandanna around his head. He reaches out to gently wrap his knuckles on the door. Staring at it through the hooded lids of his eyes.

He does return though, and the stone leads him up five flights of stairs, until leading him to her door. She had not told him which apartment, as past experience has taught her one thing for sure. If a trueborn wants to find her – they can, and will. It is largely part of why she hides so very often, on the off chance that they no longer want to find her.

There is music, soft, in the apartment – some radio station or another, and when he knocks on the door, there is a voice. “Jus’a minute.”

It takes more than a minute though, if he’s keeping track. That damn couch is comfortable, but almost impossible for the injured girl to get out of without hissing in pain, and taking it in slow increments in hopes of not further injuring herself. When she finally arrives at the door, a sheen of sweat has broken out across her brow, and her breathing is shallow, pained. She check the peephole first, and only once she recognizes him does she open the door.

“Hey.” she said and sounds slightly surprised. ‘You came back’ is what she meant.

But she would remember him. That hooked curve to his nose, those hooded brown eyes and the scar that runs down his right cheekbone from the temple to the nose. Distinctive features.

His head angles in that quirky way, tilted to the left, peering at her like a dog would a human. His eyes are observant, drinking the small details of her body language. The sheen of perspiration glistens on her brow, the curve of her bosom strains against the fabric of her shirt as her breath falls in shallow takes.

There is a strip of leather cutting a hard line into his left shoulder, attached to a handmade knapsack that has seen much wear and tear of the road. The color so washed out and dirt-soak, it is hard to see the once bright reds and blues and greens that made a pattern in the material. “Hellos.” His voice croaks out, “I come as promised,” watching her, studying her. “Have medicine.”

She steps back, carefully, and pulls the door with her so that he can enter the Apartment. While she’s most decidedly female – especially dressed in as little as she is, just a tanktop and stolen boxer shorts and socks – the apartment still has a decidedly bachelor pad feel to it. This isn’t so much her place, as the place she stays (with the man she fucks), though here and there, there ARE things that are hers. Her hoodie thrown over the back of the couch, her backpack flung on the table, her boots by the window by the fire escape

…because she rarely uses the door. She is Gnawer after all – and she doesn’t necessarily have a key to the joint.

She gestures toward the couch, where the book she was reading (one of many. William has many MANY BOOKS – her version of heaven) was marked and tossed to the side as she tried to peel herself from the depths of the couch. “Make yerself comfortable. Will ain’t home yet. Won’t be for a couple hours.”

His eyebrows have skewed forward, knitted so tightly the corners touch. The wrinkles pucker up to form little ridges in his forehead. He continues to watch her, even as he enters the apartment, she is the focus of his attention. As if he were trying to visually access the damage from what little clothing she is wearing, which doesn’t garner much of an ogling reaction. Wahya would run around naked if he could get away with it.

She gestures to the couch and he pulls his eyes away long enough to scope out the apartment. He can see the signs of another male presence; perhaps, faintly pick up the scent that Will leaves behind. His left hand digs into the strap of the homemade knapsack, tugging it off his shoulder, allowing it to slide down his arm into his hand. He sets it down into one edge of the couch, where he paused to stand. He turns back to regard her with a quizzical lift of both eyebrows.

“You’re mate live with you?” There is almost a slight puppy-eyed look to his eyes, like the news might crush whatever notion he had in the back of his puppy-human-thoughts.

She is, to coin a phrase, one hot mess.

He asks about her ‘mate’ and she blinks, and faces him, taken aback a little by the puppy-eyed look. “My… well. We’ve never defined it really, but I live with a man, yes.” She doesn’t call him her mate, she doesn’t call him her boyfriend, her lover, her…. anything. Part of her knows she never will really have a claim on him, most of her expects he will tire of her very soon. Its simply how it goes. “He’s like me, not you – only different tribe. Royalty next to my junkpile.”

There’s that sight grin again, there than gone. While Wahya is expressive – it takes time to learn to decipher the flickers of her emotion as they rarely break through the planes of her face for longer than seconds…

“Wahya—“ a pause, he looks up at her, half-bent in pose over the couch and bag, hands beginning to open it up and removes a smaller bundle wrapped in a white towel, “—will need to touch Maija. Is acceptable?” he sets the towel down, bundled up with the gourds. “Have healing talens to help, said to break gourds over wounds, but—“

His words die away, furrowing his eyebrows even more as he thinks to himself, “May need to touch you is all to heal you.”

He looks at the book, and it’s a sci-fi novel with the picture of a man and a sword and a lady in a white dress. He doesn’t ask, and she does not assume that he cannot read it, and since he does not ask, she does not tell. Instead, she eases herself back down to sit on the couch, her knuckles white on the arm as she sits carefully, keeping her back ramrod straight until perched on the edge of the couch. She then exhales the breath she was holding in a whoosh and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand.

She hates being in pain. She hates showing weakness. She hates that she didn’t run just that much faster, to have been able to avoid all of this. But his question is rewarded with a quick smile. “I ain’t apposed to touchin. If ya need ta, ya go right ahead.”

He doesn’t look at her at first, concentrated on what he is doing. She will hear the slight vibration of his voice, humming out some sort of melody. It begins to form words, but they are unintelligible in English. Possibly some sort of native language he spoke. It’s like the beginning of a performance, watching a Medicine as he begins to perform his ritual.

Wahya moves over to the injured Maija, he reaches for the towel, unwrapping one of the gourds from it. He takes it in his hands, pressing slightly on its walls to see how easily it’ll break. He says nothing to her. Setting the gourd aside and produces a wooden grinding bowl from the knapsack, and begins to set about the task of breaking the gourd in the bowl and grinding it down quickly into a fine yellowish-orange powder.

There is safety here, in this little room. She believes that, though she has never tried to define it. She looks at the gourd curiously, but asks no questions. She understands instinctively that it would be difficult for him to explain, so she simply watches. She does question though… “Yeh gone need me to strip down?”

Not a bit of modesty in her, neither. Though should Will walk in there might need be a little bit of explanation.

“Please.” He replies, the gravelly bass of his voice growing to a soft whisper. “And stand, need access all wounds. Will want bath after.”

Wahya stands next to the couch, holding the wooden grinding bowl now filled with fine powdery concoction. He directs her to stand in front of him, discreetly keeping his eyes away to allow for some modesty.

Once standing, she nudges those stolen boxers down on her hips, so the wounds along her torso are easily accessible, then sets about unwinding the ace bandage from her ribs, her breathing slow and shallow, refusing to fully inflate her lungs without them.

He keeps his eyes away and discreet as she stands before him, and she catches a chuckle before it escapes, swallowing it back. She has nothing to hide, and once she tosses the bandages on the couch behind her, she peels the tape and such off the gauze that covers the surgery incision site, and then simply nudges those boxers down to fall at her ankles. No modesty in her, no worry that he might peek at something other than her injuries. She’s no great prize – very thin, bony, with slight curves and barely that – but she doesn’t seem to care if he looks at all.

“Rest hands on shoulders for support if you need.” He quietly instructs, his body braced to support her weight if she needed to. They were of the same height—Wahya and Maija. There wouldn’t be much distance between the two. He goes back to humming, focusing his concentration on her wounds.

The Uktena starts first at her legs, slowly working his way up her thighs and then the torso. Each place his fingers touch, he paints a fine mist of the powder over her wounds. Meticulous and gentle, the touch is as light as he can administer, until there is no part of Maija’s injuries that isn’t coated. Wahya spends some time on the sutures before slowing rising up, using the muscles in his legs to stand. He finishes applying the powder to her wounds, channeling his gnosis into the healing talen to activate its properties.

She is, however, very glad that she is not ticklish, as his fingers slide over her frame, a light touch used to coat her wounds with the powder. She’s never had something like this done, though she has been healed by….

(…but that was different, and for different reasons. Keep breathing, Maija, just keep breathing.)

And that’s exactly what she concentrates on doing as he works, watching him.

Wahya is frowning, no he isn’t. He’s damn right scowling. She can hear the sudden gruff and verbose language roll of his tongue, cussing under his breath in some native tongue. He is angry, that much she will see in the flash of his brown eyes as they meet hers for a moment.

He is disappointed, greatly disappointed. “Damned Wyrmbreaker give rotten gourd. His testicles will swell up to grapefruits if no work.” He growls out under his breath.

She sees him hold up a hand, index finger pointing up, “Wait.” He turns away from her, reaching for the second and last gourd, and sets about the task one more time. “Just—“ he goes back to cussing and growling under his breath, not looking at Maija as Wahya performs the task one more time with grinding up the powder and administering it again.

He starts the process once more, while she considers how someone named Wyrmbreaker is going to feel with grapefruit sized testicles. Her hand grips his shoulder once as his fingers slide over a particularly tender rib, but she remains steady. She’s nothing if not a seriously stubborn bitch.

This time, though… this time something DOES happen, and she closes her eyes as she feels the magic work through, as she feels the healing efforts of the spirits within the power concentrate on the worst of her injuries. She inhales suddenly, sharply, and… well – there’s still some pain, but it has improved at least by half, maybe a bit more. She tests a slower, deeper breath, and exhales with a little sigh. “…not bad… still hurts but I can breathe again without wanting to stab someone in the face because of the pain.”

Her grip on him loosens, and she gives him that brief little grin again. “Thanks, Wahya.”

He looks at her, meeting her gaze. His head dips in a small nod, she can see his displeasure. He is not wholly satisfied with the results, but it is better than nothing. He had anticipated something more. Weak talens made by a weak crescent moon.

“When moon comes next crescent cycle, Wahya going bear hunting again, can’t rely on wasi’chu talens,” he spits out; when the Uktena is certain that the kin is capable of standing on her own, he steps away setting the bowl down on the coffee table and dusts the powder from his fingers.

“Go and bath.” He instructs, “Brought clean wraps, will tend to your injuries with healing salve and fresh bandages. Will help the process. Brought food, go get cleaned up.”

“Alright. Won’t be long.”

True to her word, she doesn’t take long either. She’s walking easier – a little gingerly, but better than the slow painful process of before – as she tries not to get the powder from the gourd on any of the surfaces. Soon enough, the water can be heard running in the bathroom down the hall as she showers.

10 minutes later, she reappears, wrapped in a large fluffy towel, her hair dripping down her back, and thick warm socks on her feet. Her skin is flushed from the heat of the shower, though her hands – as always – are still chilled.

Wahya—though a clever wolf, still doesn’t know much about human commodities. He pokes around the apartment while she goes off to shower, lurking around the shiny stereo equipment if there is such and browsing the shelves of books. The books seem to draw his attention, pulling one down to flip it open and browse the pages. Words don’t seem to catch his attention, only the ones with pictures, so he’ll likely gravitate towards any magazines inside the apartment.

Eventually, he goes back to the couch clean up his mess, wrapping the contents of the bowl into the towel and bundling it up. He’ll find some place to dump it later. He produces a bag, of lukewarm greasy goodness with a fast food burger logo on it. He sets that down on the coffee table for Maija, and pulls out a first aid kit that has the clean bandages and healing salvage in it. He is a better doctor that she’d imagine a wolf-born to be.

The salve smeared over the cuts and bruises, the bandages wrapped with just enough pressure to offer support to bruised ribs. Once he is done, he sets everything aside and offers Maija her clothes back. He doesn’t watch her dress, just goes about packing up his bag.

He’s a pretty good doctor, and she lets him know exactly that. “Wish ya’d been at the ER. The bitch that patched me up there poked n prodded n prolly did more damage than good! Ya got a gentle touch.”

He carefully doesn’t watch her dress, and she pulls on the boxers and tank top once more, her movements easier then just minutes before. She’ll never get used to the Garou, and the way they heal. At least she’s pretty sure that Wahya won’t turn right around and beat her bloody just because he can, and doesn’t feel she has to put up those shields, be so guarded, retreat behind her walls again. Not yet, anyway.

Then, softly. “Ya ain’t able to read, is ya?” She’d seen the way he looked at the book when he first got here. She doesn’t watch him as he answers, she just digs a burger out of the bag full of greasy goodness. She is, after all, a Gnawer, and food is ALWAYS a priority.

It’s possible to assume that Wahya, in his human experiences, has been berated time and time again for his faults. Regarded as stupid and retarded, despite his cleverness. With a heavy sigh, he finally admits to her question with a single answer.

“Yes.”

Packed up, Wahya reaches for his sweater jacket, slipping his arms through the holes, yanking it roughly up around his shoulders with a few agitated jerking motions. “Monkeys say Wahya dumb. Cannot read good.” He grunts, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “Cannot read, but able to use count frog-skins buy Maija’s food.”

He reaches down for the strap of the homemade knapsack, looking down at the girl. He seems satisfied now; he did what he could do. The salve and bandages will help the healing process along more quickly.

The offer is honest, the offer is heartfelt, and she will make good on it… if he wants. “I ain’t think ya stupid or nuthin. I kin teach ya, if ya want.”

He helped her. She offers to help in return, though like as not she would have offered even if he hadn’t been able to ease her pain. That he wanted too was enough.

He is considerate of her offer. The Uktena inclines his head to her, half-bowing to Maija like she was some sort of princess. “Wahya accepts.”

He extends out his right red hand, places it atop her head and affectionately tousles her hair, sending it into her eyes. “Feel better soon you will.”

His head turns away, glancing over the apartment one last time. His nose wrinkling up to sniff and then he lets out a small sigh. “Must go. Get rest. Medicine Man’s orders.” He threatens her with a playful mock-growl and winks, a smiling round on the corners of his mouth.

A pause as she lifts the burger, even though she means everything else, as well. “Thanks. When ya come back, I’ll cook for ya.” Lucky for him, she’s a pretty damn good cook, too.

Wahya grins, he leans in close to touch his forehead to Maija’s eyes staring into hers, holding her gaze. “Also accepted,” the closeness may make her slightly uncomfortable, the way he invades her private space, but its his way, his animal nature.

“Wahya prefer meat. Is wolf afterall.”

He pulls away, turning to head for the door and let himself out, he pauses at the door. “Come back to check in few days, promise.”

The door closes behind him, leaving Maija to choose whether to lock it or not. She knows that the Uktena’s promise is a kept promise.

Wahya Many Tongues is a wolf of his word.