A Hound in the Woods

Women's Work

An apple is an excellent thing - until you have tried a peach

It had only been two days since Sandor had awoken. His leg had become itchy and red. A foul odor had begun to permeate from the wound. When Angharad tried to inspect the wound, he shooed her away with a scowl. Angharad could only stand by and watch her hard work go to rot.

That evening, when Angharad brought him his dinner, he was shivering. He was shivering despite the day being a warm one and a fire burning in the hearth. Sweat glistened on his brow.

"You are sick," she said, lingering at the bedside.

"I'm fine, girl," he insisted.

"You're not."

Sandor glared at her. She only looked back. It felt like she was looking at his inner thoughts, she made him feel unsettled. It wasn't common for someone to look at him for so long, especially not his face. Most people averted their eyes quickly or if they managed to look for longer than a second they had fear in their eyes. She didn't. She just looked. Her big green eyes flecked with gold held contact with his eyes without fear. He blinked away.

"Go on then," he conceded, tossing the blanket off of his injured leg.

Angharad knelt next to his leg. She unwrapped the linen bandage from the injury. The last few layers of linen were dried and crusted together from pus seeping through the incision. Sandor gritted his teeth as she pried the cloth from his flesh. 

The injury had swollen and the skin around the stitches was and angry red color. Angharad hovered her hand over it, it radiated heat. An infection had set in due to lack of cleanliness. Yellowed fluid was leaking out. She touched her finger tips to the yellow fluid, it was stringy and sticky. She smelled it and recoiled at the nauseating smell. 

"I'll be back," she stood and left the cottage to where Ray had skinned the rabbits. A few organs remained on the ground. White grubs wriggled around on the discarded organs. Just what she was looking for. Angharad retrieved an old bucket and the shovel. She scooped up the maggot infested refuse and took it back to the house.

Angharad set the bucket down next to her and was about to put a handful of wriggling maggots on Sandor's leg, when he saw what she was doing. He lurched forward and grabbed her forearm. 

"What the Hell are you doing?" He barked at her.

"Putting maggots on your leg. They will help make it better."

"No! They can't have me until I'm dead!"

Angharad sighed exasperatedly. Why couldn't he just trust her? If he had let her take care of his leg and clean it as she wanted, it likely wouldn't have become this infected. "Maggots eat dead flesh, not living flesh. They will eat the infected tissue and then fall off in search of more dead flesh elsewhere."

"You're sure?" he loosened his grip, but still held her arm.

"Yes."

The stared at each other for a moment. Sandor let go of her and nodded before sitting back in the bed. Angharad put the maggots on the infected leg. They wriggled and squirmed finding their new feast. It tickled the tender flesh of Sandor's leg. It made his skin crawl. The thought of the the worms eating at him, the feeling of them moving around on his skin.

"How long will this take?" he asked, flinching from the feeling of the maggots.

"A day, maybe," she rose and took the bucket to dump the rotted guts far out into the woods.

Angharad cleaned her hands when she returned before going to check on Sandor again. She stood near his head and pressed her cheek to his forehead to check for fever. Her hand held the back of his head to prevent him from pulling away. Sandor didn't fight. He just sat, frozen. Confused as to what she was doing, and uncomfortable from the bugs on his leg. She pulled away.