“I am certain, Jane,” said Sif in soothing tones. “Once this blood drains, his breathing will ease. Then, I’ll be able to treat the wound. I know my craft, dear.”
Jane sobbed, sounding more than sad, more than exhausted, and I began to hear other sounds from the cave: a fierce, whispered argument between Veethar and Frikka, Meuhlnir and Mothi talking quietly about Kuthbyuhrn, the undead bear’s chuffing.
I tried to lift my hand but only succeeded in twitching my finger.
“He moved, Mommy,” said Sig in a tear-choked voice. “He’s…”
“Alive,” I croaked.
“Don’t speak, Hank,” scolded Sif.
I tried to open my mouth, to tell them I was okay, but instead, I drifted…