Took me long enough to get this up! Hope to hear you enjoy xo

His senses blunted, L'tor gave his head a hard shake with a rough, annoyed snort. The mist and fog were thick and pervasive, not allowing him to pick up any scent or sight in this strange place. The air was so dense it was a struggle to move through it, like walking in chest-deep muck. He clenched his fists and rounded his shoulders, leaning into it as he forced himself to push through it. It pulled at him, tugging at his hide, at the straps and fasteners of his gear, at his sensitive tresses. It was a battle to lift each foot and to advance each step, and he was aware that the physical exertion was taking a toll on him. His hearts pounded in his aching chest, his breaths were labored, his joints burned and his muscles spasmed and cramped.

He wanted to stop. To lie down and rest. But something about this strange place had him aware that if he stopped pushing forward, if he gave up to rest a moment, he might never find his way out.

And there were teasing hints of something beyond that lured him onward, sometimes a scent, sometimes a sound, sometimes even words. It was familiar but unknown. Something he was sure in the core of him that he wanted, very much. Enough that the enticing hints of it kept him moving ever onward, determined to find it, committed to keep it.

But the pain. It lashed, it burned, it festered and throbbed. The pain was exacting a toll on him that was hard to quantify and difficult to measure. It was like a parasite that was slowly, steadily draining the life from him. He was aware of his grunts and groans in response, aware of the hitches and catches in his already labored breathing, distantly aware that he was grievously injured but unable to stop and take stock of his condition. He urgently needed to keep moving, driven to find the source of that scent, of that sound.

The ship, it was burning and spinning, no longer responding to his attempts to control it. The ooman female was running from him, slapping her way through the vegetation and disappearing inside it. The kainde amedha Queen was coming around, turning, her spear tipped tail slashing. The zagreb bellowed and charged on its hind limbs and one forelimb, a thin piece of metal clutched in its other forelimb as it swung.

He buckled and braced. He bellowed and pursued. He stepped and deflected some of the blow with his spear. He sucked in his gut and thrust backward from the swing.

He was falling and burning. He was failing. His thigh flayed open to the bone, his abdomen slashed dangerously deep from left to right. He faltered and stopped pushing himself onward, reeling unsteadily, his body threatening to fall and his mind weighing the merits of giving up and giving in...

Anya stilled at the sound and vibration of L'tor's rattling, tremulous growl. Vlieg'r, she knew, had turned off all the alarms and warning indicators of the sensors and monitors, and her eyes automatically flicked to the screen and watched the symbols as the display constantly changed, as if she could read what she was looking at.

She knew, though. She didn't need to be able to read the data being displayed to know what was happening.

Rallying, she filled the bowl and gathered the cloths, sponges and disinfectant again. L'tor's massive chest was pumping like a bellows as he panted, his jaw gaping and his mandibles slack. She sensed that a battle was at hand and that he was fighting with everything he had left, which wasn't much. She'd seen it before, after all. The gasping and squirming of her grandmother. The shuddering rigidness of her mother. The restless, nervous anxiety of her sister.

And after, the peaceful stillness and calm that preceded death, after the mind and spirit were defeated and the body slowly, eventually gave out.

"Don't you dare," she hissed through her teeth, dragging over the stool Vlieg'r had left near the countertop along the wall and climbing onto it. She thumbed L'tor's eyelid up and saw his bloodstained, dilated pupil, rolled up and twitching slightly right to left like a flickering, dying lightbulb.

"No, no, no, no," she murmured, determined, then grunted as she lifted the bowl and poured the cold water over his chest and abdomen. It sloshed over his rough, damaged hide, rinsing through his wounds, following the planes and contours of his musculature before streaming into the channels along the edge of the table and draining away. His reaction had been a full-body clench and shudder with a shaky, waffling exhalation before he settled back into his rapid breathing. "And again," she told herself, taking the bowl back to refill it, then carrying it carefully to his prostrate form and climbing the stool to douse him in cold water again. He made a gurgling rumble and she refilled and redoused him, this time earning a weak, chattering growl that was a pale imitation of the threat he was normally capable of communicating.

Vlieg'r appeared in the clinic's doorway, watching as she hurried back to the sink to fill the bowl again. Once again she carried it back across the clinic and doused L'tor's core from chest to groin in cool water, finally seeing a weak swiping motion of his hand like an attempt to blindly swat and defend himself. His growl had some more strength and purpose behind it and his head moved slightly, his mandibles flexing and his jaw champing fitfully. The hard arch of his spine that she hadn't noticed before eased as he relaxed back onto the table and his breathing slowed to a grating rattle.

As she took the bowl to refill it, Vlieg'r approached to check the monitor. He watched it as this time she set the bowl down next to L'tor and added the disinfectant, then he grunted and turned to regard her.

"Your mate's fever has dropped," he informed her, his mandibles slightly held open in blatant amusement, unable to help but be impressed by her primitive but clearly effective treatment method. She stared at him and his mouthparts readjusted to close tightly, his humor evaporating. "His body temperature is high to fight infection," he informed her, rallying to offer her something more worthwhile than an observation.

Anya finally blinked, and Vlieg'r felt a small sense of relief. "So I shouldn't cool him down, you're saying?"

The Elder Healer retrieved the hydration bottle she used to wet L'tor's mouth near the sink and brought it to her. "Keep hydrated," he advised, then gestured at the deep gash on L'tor's flank, the worst of his wounds. "Keep clean." She blinked again, frowning as her attention settled on the seeping mess. It looked swollen and dark and angry, no better and perhaps even worse that it had been when she'd first seen it. Feeling helpless, she lifted her eyes to meet Vlieg'r's again, frightened that she wasn't up to the daunting job of keeping L'tor alive and angry that none of them would help her. Once again she was mystified by their honor code, and the fact that though they clearly had the capability to heal and restore him, it was up to L'tor to battle through the worst of it with minimum support and prove he was worthy of surviving his wounds.

The Elder Healer studied her for a moment, then passed a glance around the clinic. There were two Junior Healers working on something in the corner, their heads together and their backs to them. Rallying, Vlieg'r turned to Anya. "Hands," he grunted quietly, picking up the bottle of disinfectant. With his other hand he wasted no time in pulling her hands over the bowl of water, then he doused them. "Clean," he instructed, adding more to the water. Unsure, she stared at him while she rubbed her hands together. "Female," he said quietly, "L'tor's infection is deep. You cannot only clean outside."

Anya went rigid as Vlieg'r pulled back and gave her a nod. Another Junior Healer came into the clinic and glanced at them while she mulled his words over and realized just what he was trying to communicate. She needed to disinfect her hands thoroughly because she needed to reach inside L'tor's body to properly clean the oozing, infected wound on his flank.

For a moment, her gorge rose and she turned her head and lifted her arm to press her nose and mouth against her shoulder, her body clenching at even the thought of what she had to do. She drew in deep, slow breaths, clenching her teeth and squeezing her eyes shut, distantly aware of Vlieg'r's quiet, anxious purring, and when the sensation finally, mercifully passed, she lifted her head to glare at the wound, holding her hands out for more disinfectant. The healer obliged her, dribbling more over her hands as she methodically spread the stuff into every crack and crevice of her nails and knuckles, then higher, up her wrists and forearms. It tingled on her skin and she imagined it burning away any and all impurities, ensuring she wouldn't be introducing new contaminants into a wound already teeming with bacteria.

Bracing herself, Anya studied the wound, trying to decipher the best method of approach, mentally preparing herself while wondering how bad this would be for both of them. When she placed her left hand over the gash L'tor's breathing hitched and he went rigid at the contact, and she tried to ignore the knowledge that this alone hurt him badly enough to force a reaction. Lightly, she used the tips of the fingers of her right hand to feel for a way in past the surface, listening to the low, rattling growl of her mate as he feebly attempted to warn her off.

She poked cautiously, grinding her teeth together and staring at the far wall of the clinic as she felt her way along. Whatever she was touching was hot and slick, and as she worked her fingers deeper as gently as she could, a smell was coming to her awareness, pungent enough to make her almost gag. Deeper was only hotter and she flared her nostrils and clenched her jaw as she started to flex and bend her fingers through the gash in the thick, powerful muscle of L'tor's abdominal wall, feeling it actually flex and clamp around her hand like a gummy, toothless mouth as he squirmed and tensed and grunted roughly.

Vlieg'r had carefully disinfected the bottle before holding it out to her and she took it with her left hand and made to squirt the bactericide directly into the wound, hesitating and glancing at him in askance. He considered a moment, then shrugged his response. Returning her focus to what she was doing, Anya moved her wrist enough to open the wound to the air a bit and squirted the stuff inside.

L'tor bellowed gustily and arched off the table, and Anya scrambled on her stool and quickly adjusted her position, wincing as his reaction and powerful muscular flex almost broke her wrist. The disinfectant reacted violently as well, hissing and bubbling into a thick, rancid foam on contact with L'tor's insides before pouring out of him like it was under pressure.

He was panting again, a rapid, asthmatic sounding rasping, his mandibles flexing rhythmically in time as his body slowly released its tension. The flow of greenish foam was lessening and Anya wriggled her fingers, hearing his huff, then worked her way deeper, wondering if the slippery mess she was sorting through were his intestines. If so and they were pierced, she knew that nothing short of emergency surgery would save him and as she gradually overcame her squeamishness she felt along, as best she could, for any rupture or damage, until she was wrist deep. Flexing, she braced and squirted more of the disinfectant deep inside the wound, ready this time for his reaction and rising in tandem with the sudden bowing of his spine as he let out a hoarse, raspy bellow. This one was much weaker, both in sound and sensation.

One of the Junior Healers approached to speak to Vlieg'r. When he noticed Anya reaching inside L'tor's body he paused and stared, fascinated, then barked the others over to see. Three of them gathered beside the Elder Healer, watching her bend low over her mate, using her sense of touch to follow the course of the wound upward just beneath his thick hide, timing her advance between his breaths as each inhalation tightened his insides and restricted her ability to keep plunging cautiously deeper. It was slow going and she closed her eyes and focused on her sense of touch, finally pausing when her fingertips contacted the solid bottom edge of his ribcage. Identifying it, she delicately probed, feeling the powerful concussion of his heartsbeats and the jarring vibration of his rattling insides. She was sweating, her own heart pattering nervously as she focused and applied herself to figure out if this was the end of the damage or if it continued above or below his ribs.

Fortunately she'd disinfected her forearms because her arm was almost elbow-deep inside L'tor's massive chest, her fingers slipping and sliding over the hot gristle that coated and nourished his bones until she felt something weird. Concentrating, moving much more delicately, she found a sharp protrusion sticking out from under his bony breastplate, and she struggled to get a grip on it before she was finally able to tug at it. L'tor rattled dangerously, squirming weakly on the table like he was fighting her to keep whatever-it-was. It finally came loose and she kept a careful grip on it, flexing her wrist and elbow to create an opening to douse with bactericide. He grunted and barked, his growling raspy, his insides battering against her hand and forearm as he vocalized. The smell of rot and infection this time made her gag and she turned her head away and struggled to hold her breakfast down as she felt the blazing hot foam bubbling out of his wound, following the path of her arm and soaking her upper covering as it poured out of him. Steeling herself for his reaction she did it again and again until the foam that poured out of him was clean and only streaked green with his blood. Keeping the sharp thing carefully clutched in the folds of her palm, she made sure to gently work the antiseptic up around the wounded area of L'tor's ribcage, determined to do a thorough job.

Finally satisfied that this foreign object she held was the only one and that after emptying two bottles of antiseptic inside the wound it felt and smelt and looked as clean as she could possible get it, she leaned back and started to ease her hand out of L'tor's chest. Like with her entrance, she moved slowly, timing her movements to his breaths, pausing on the way out to add more disinfectant to clean up any possible contaminants from her arm. She maintained careful custody of the sharp foreign object she'd found inside L'tor's chest, until she worked her way out and was able to hold it up and look at it, aware that she was soaked in blood and infection and antiseptic past her shoulder.

"Cjit!" Vlieg'r exclaimed, his eyes widening as she looked at what she held.

"What is it?" she wondered, turning it this way and that, trying to see past the bright green blood and the bit of attached meat. The Elder Healer snatched it from her and he and the Juniors went to the sink to wash it off and examine it while she closed her eyes and tried to steady herself. Her arm felt wet and cold now that it was no longer inside the hot tightness of his chest.

What if there was more debris or shrapnel or whatever the hell it was inside him? What if she'd missed some and it was still festering?

"Dlex!" Vlieg'r announced triumphantly, carrying the cleaned, jagged piece of metal back to her in the palm of his hand. "Not plating. Too thin for engine part," he clarified, showing it to her like she had any idea what the hell that meant. "Will contact Elder Arbitrator Warkha," he decided, abruptly veering away and taking the chunk of metal with him.

Anya let out a shuddery breath that calmed and settled her a bit, then glanced over as one of the Junior Healers turned on the ventilation fans in the clinic, probably to air out the smell of rotting yautja. Carefully, she eased herself off the table she'd climbed onto in order to give her better leverage to dig inside L'tor's chest, then she used the stool to get down to floor level, holding her right arm up and away from her body. She made it to the sink and smeared L'tor's blood all over the faucet controls, her hands slippery and her fingers numb. L'tor, she could hear behind her, was groaning, and part of her wondered if she'd just pushed him far enough to kill him.

She washed off as quickly as she dared, making sure she was thorough so she didn't end up recontaminating what she'd just worked so hard to decontaminate when she went back to work on him. While she was at it she splashed clean water on her face, too, then searched through the cabinets until she found a strip of leather she could use to tie her hair back. The Junior Healers watched her but didn't interfere; if any non-healer had permission to paw through Vlieg'r's supplies it would be her and they knew it.

Her attempt to put her hair up into a ponytail took some work, thanks to not only the since-her-transformation thickness of each strand but also her having since allowed it to start clumping into dreadlocks. It tended to knot anyway, and her attempts to comb it were an aggravating and painful battle that her hair was steadily winning.

Ultimately she used the trick of weaving the thong through her hair to give it support and an anchor point before gathering the length and tying it tightly to lie in a mass of pale curls that lay heavily down her back. Finally satisfied, she turned and went back to the table where L'tor lay as if already dead, then she moved the stool and boosted herself up, dipping a piece of hide in the medicated water and starting once again to clean his damaged tresses.

"Fuck your fever," she said quietly, firmly. "Get your shit together, mister. I'm counting on you to come back." His answering groan raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck, and she put the hide down to reach over him and rest her hands on his pectorals. "Fight," she implored, then leaned over him to retrieve the squeeze bottle and wet his mouth. "This pup is coming soon, whether you're awake and aware and ready or not," she whispered. "And I'm afraid that once that happens, things might change," she admitted, feeling the threat of hot tears behind her eyes. "I need you, Lahtor. This isn't funny anymore," she said mournfully.

She'd worked hard to keep the fear at bay ever since Vlieg'r had warned her that Chulote wanted her rid of the pup she was carrying. Once it was born she was going to need her Annie-dee to watch her back and make sure she had everything she wanted to eat and drink and to watch over them while she slept. Warkha had to be more than ready to move on now that L'tor had been found, she was thinking, and if he did that while L'tor was still helpless there would be no one to protect her. They could order L'tor moved to wherever they'd been arguing about sending him, some other clinic for yautja outside the Breeder's quarters that she wouldn't be able to get to. And Lar'nix'va, she assumed, was either deliberately keeping his distance or he wasn't allowed to come into the Breeder's quarters. She'd heard about that argument, too. The Clan Leader and the Firstborn were both invested in maneuvering her into whatever position they chose, once she no longer had the protection of the Elder Arbitrator. Hell, even with him here and actively involved they still had no shame about attempting to move L'tor, remove A'ni-de and deny Lar'nix'va access to her.

No response, not even a grunt. Anya sighed and wiped her eyes, then continued the monumental task of cleaning eight feet of burning hot yautja front and back and side to side and head to toe.

Unaware that his rescue had already occurred, L'tor relived the experience on the barren planet in his delirium, overlapping his memories with current sensations and sounds and scents, everything becoming mixed up and jumbled together in his mind as he tried to puzzle out where he was and what had happened to him.

Sheets of fire, most of it concentrated along his flank, then a sensation of something moving and squirming inside of his body. The pain was excruciating and he groaned, fearing he was infested with the larva of a kainde amedha and desperately trying to remember what had happened.

The planet was hot. The wind scorching. How he'd survived the crash was beyond his ability to know, but he was in no doubt that he would die here. The kainde amedha drones would be hunting him so they could move him to their nest where they could guard him as he incubated their sister.

No, not sister. The parasite felt large enough and aggressive enough to be a Queen. He could swear it was entangled in his guts from his hip all the way up to his breastbone, gnashing and biting and tugging inside him. He hitched and tensed in a halfhearted attempt to catch and crush it inside him, even knowing that that would mean certain death when it released its acidic blood. It would be a far more honorable death than to let it tear him apart on its way out once it matured.

Burnt and damaged beyond his ability to survive or repair, L'tor dragged himself from the burning wreckage of his drop ship until he encountered a relatively sheltered depression against a rock formation. As he tucked himself into it he idly noticed that the clear track he'd left to this place was being wiped away by the same relentless wind that was fanning the flames that were consuming whatever was left of his ship. Erasing any traces of his miraculous survival and destroying all his supplies.

He floated in and out of consciousness, making half hearted attempts to diagnose the failure of the comm unit on his gauntlet in between desperately trying to shield himself from the scouring wind. It howled inside his head and drove the grains of sand into his open wounds like pinpricks of fire, a constant torturous symphony bombarding him as he faded.

As he considered giving in and letting go, his thoughts wandered and his mind played tricks on him. He thought he heard the voice of an ooman female, calling and imploring to someone. Maybe to the one who had done this to him. Had he been hunting pyode amedha? Was it an ooman who'd mortally wounded him? This place didn't seem at all like earth but he couldn't remember where he was or how he'd gotten here anymore. He huffed to expel the reek of decaying flesh, infection and rot from the pits in the roof of his mouth, unsure if this place was dying or if he was. After the burning pain of before he'd settled into a numb sense of blissful detachment, a comfortable place of warmth and darkness and quiet.

But still he could hear the faint voice of the female, and he thought he could hear her speaking her version of words in his language. Talking about pups. Annie dee...A'ni-de? Then a heavy-handed version of Lar'nix'va, missing the rolling syllables and light clicks.

In his brief bit of focus, as he applied himself to thinking over what had happened to him that led him to where he was now, he felt a sense of urgency. He didn't have time for this, to be injured and infested with kainde amedha and stranded. There was somewhere he needed to be. Something he needed to do. And something about the ooman female's voice was familiar and soothing so he latched onto it like a lifeline, in no state of mind to understand the words being spoken but feeling reassured and comforted by the mere sound of it.