Blood

There was blood on his armor. He needed to clean it. He couldn’t clean it. Why can’t he clean it?

He needs to. Needs to. Right. The straps. He needs to undo the straps. He lifts his hand to the soft, worn leather. They slip. Why did they slip? He’s done this a thousand times. He could don and doff his armor in his sleep. For summer’s sake, what’s wrong with him? Why won’t his hands close around the buckle? He tries again, but his hands simply won’t grip, won’t close right, won’t catch, can’t catch. They slip. They’re slipping. Why are they- right. Right. They’re- it’s-

He needs to clean his hands. But he- he needs to clean his armor. But- he- its-

Draz feels his breath speed up, and fuck, why can’t he just. He just. He needs to. Okay, okay, breathe, breathe, he can breathe, he’s had blood on him before, he knows what to do. It’s just. It is just blood. Blood like when he splits his lip, blood when he gets a cut, blood when he fights, blood when he hunts, when he hunted, when he stalked forward and drew his sword, a practiced move, and his prey growled low, but it wasn’t anger, it was warning, was worry, wanting. He didn’t stop though, and his sword flashed, cool and golden, and sunk deep, split his prey, split fur and skin and muscle and sinew. A perfect blow. But. But it. He didn’t. He hadn’t wanted it to be. Right? Right. He would. He would never. But he did. He did. He hurt his friend, hurt his friends. He wasn’t safe. All the training he’d done, everything he did to protect them, now revealed it’s true form: He is a fae. And fae are dangerous to mortals. And the blood, gods, the blood, it dripped and dropped and spread and smeared and gods its on his face its in his mouth, its in his mouth, he knows it is, and his hands fly to his face, to his mouth, he knows it is he knows it is he knows it is-