Jethro didn't want to look at the carnage before him, and yet he there he stood, eyes affixed to the body that lay crumpled upon the ground. It was Yvonne, meeting him here in the forest just as she said she would. Blood began to seep out from a jagged wound just above her eyebrow, matting her hair and staining the soot beneath her. Jethro desperately wanted to draw inward, but found himself unable to escape. The situation had become far too real to wish away. Jethro cast the stone aside and began to pace about, gingerly stepping over the growing puddle of blood as he walked around her fallen body. A thousand errant thoughts rushed through his mind at once. Had he killed her? Does this make him an exile now? How is he supposed to explain this to Tethys? He began to fear, for he did not know the answer to any of these questions. He stopped pacing briefly to steady himself on one of the burned trees, as he began to feel faint. As nausea began to overtake him, he began to wonder if he had been hit instead. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure, and the dark stain beneath her head confirmed his fears. She'd been hit alright, and from the looks of it, if she doesn't get medical attention, she's going to bleed out here in the forest. The thought of Yvonne bleeding dry as he cowered in the corner brought forth another wave of nausea. He didn't know what he was supposed to do, but he sure as hell knew that he wasn't going to watch.

Jethro drew a single deep breath, and push himself off from the tree, and began walking back towards the body. Kneeling down beside her, he tentatively began to inspect the wound. Sudden pangs out guilt tugged at him as he stared at her prone form. She seemed so peaceful like this. If one could ignore the dark red streaks soaking into her blackened hair, it almost looked like she had stopped to take a quick nap in the woods. Tilting her head ever so slightly, he drew in close to get a better look. Jethro was no doctor, but the problem was so simple that even a child could figure it out.

"She's bleeding like a stuck pig." Jethro whispered to himself. He was surprised at how shaky his voice sounded. This wasn't the first time he'd dealt with trauma, but his reaction to these sorts of things managed to surprise him every time. Mimicking the actions of his aunt whenever he had managed to nick himself out in the fields, Jethro tore a strip of cloth off of Yvonne's... something. Jethro didn't really know what to call it. It looked like poncho with sleeves to him. He almost found himself getting distracted by the very nature of her clothing before he realized that she was bleeding out right before his eyes as he nearly drifted away. He felt another stab of guilt as he snapped back to reality, and finished butchering her clothing.The tear was ungraceful, but it'd do. He took the strip of cloth, and pressed it against her forehead, watching intently as it immediately began to sop up blood. He sat there for a time, cloth pressed up against the wound. Once he was certain that the bleeding had slowed to a manageable state, he tore another strip off from her sleeve, and used it to tie it around her head, firmly securing the bandage in place. 

Once he had finished, Jethro was unsure. She was still breathing, but he didn't know if he was supposed to do anything else. The intrusive thoughts returned with a vengeance, as he imagined all of the worst possible scenarios for this situation. In one, he had failed to bandage her head properly and had gone off to sleep, only to awake the next morning and find her all pale exsanguinated as she lie dead right next to him. In another, he did the very best he could but she ended up slipping into a coma some time in the night, never to wake again. He knew there was nothing more he could do for this girl, but he couldn't help but feel terrible as his mind generated increasingly morbid scenarios. Soon enough, he wasn't sure if she was even still alive, for she had lived and died a thousand times over in the confines of his thoughts. This became too much for Jethro, and he decided that perhaps sleep would free him from these thoughts. He laid down beside her and shut his eyes tight, but found that his mind wouldn't calm down for an instant. It kept focusing on all sorts of problems. One second he found himself too cold, the next he felt itchy, and then suddenly he'd remember that he had just brained the closest thing he'd get to a friend with a rock. It wasn't exactly the kind of thing one thinks about to calm one's mind down before bed. He got back off the ground, and decided to walk around to help calm his nerves. He'd made it about fifteen meters away from Yvonne before he discovered what looked like the beginnings of a campsite. It looked like someone had been waiting here for quite some time, judging be the completed lean-to that stood in the corner of the site, complete with bedding and all, and the telltale stone ring of a campfire built mere feet away.  

"I guess she really was ready to leave me here." He mused aloud. He couldn't blame her. After all, he'd just-

He winced as he remembered what he'd done. 

Heart still heavy with guilt, he walked back over to Yvonne and tried to think of ways to make this right. To start, he picked her up, and clumsily carried her back to her campsite. It was the least he could do at that point in time. He laid her in down inside of the lean-to, and pulled the threadbare blanket within over her. She probably didn't care if she got cold or not, but it seemed like the proper thing to do. After laying her to rest, he tried to keep watch over the campsite, but he found himself more often then not, staring at her rather than their surroundings. This filled him with a discomfort unlike any other. Afterwards, he laid down right outside the lean-to and tried sleeping again, for maybe the second time was the charm? He almost drifted off that time around, but found the problem with sleeping out uncovered in the cold was, well, just that. Those who lived in the shadow of Bulwark tended to face extremes, with afternoons that could sear skin from the bone, and nights that tended to freeze the unfortunate souls who didn't happened to have a roof over their head. He rolled over to face Yvonne, all warm inside her shelter. Another thought went through his mind, this one a little more constructive than the last. 

No, I couldn't. It'd be wrong.

But the night cared not for Jethro's standards, and chilled him all the same. He tried to ignore the bitter winds howling around him, but the seed had been planted in his mind. Once again, he peeked over at Yvonne before rolling back over and chiding himself.

I can't...

The winds picked up and tore through the campsite, freezing Jethro and scattering soot all around. Jethro groaned as he realized that it was inevitable. He was either going to freeze outside with his honor barely intact, or move into the shelter. For a split second, he genuinely believed that he was strong enough to choose the former, but as the winded refused to wane, he knew he'd met his match. Defeated by the elements, Jethro moved in next to Yvonne, huddling against her for warmth. It wasn't all too bad, but the lingering smell of copper in the air reminded him of his mistakes. It really was a strange thing to fall asleep to.