Once spilled blood would have excited me. Once I was my father’s son. Now I am the grandson of a healer, a friend of a gardener, and I bind the wounds.
Sophia’s cut was nasty, but not deep into the bone. Jack showed me where to look for infection. I did not tell him I would smell it. But I watched his competent hands stitch and mend, and when, at last, he trusted me with the changing of the cloths, I washed my hands carefully, before doing the binding.
Precious fluids. The smell of my beloved’s sweat and lust. The way I marked my territory in the garden. And now my great-aunt’s blood. These three have helped me walk away from my father’s world, from his whistles and commands. I will not go back.