Alpheo sat quietly as Agalosios finished closing the wound, the medic's skilled hands stitching the gash before wrapping his hand in layers of bandages. The pain had dulled somewhat after the tea of willow bark and honey had been administered onto the wound , though it still throbbed persistently beneath the wrapping. He flexed his fingers, grimacing at the tightness, but was at least thankful the worst had passed.
Mounting his horse with his wounded hand hanging limp at his side, Alpheo guided the reins with his good hand. As he rode back toward the camp, the sun had begun to dip toward the horizon, casting a long shadow behind him.
Clio, riding close beside him, broke the silence. "Are you alright?" he asked
Alpheo gave a slow nod, glancing over at him. "As good as I could be, given the situation," he replied, his tone dry. "I'm not dead, at least, though I'll admit I've been in better shape."
