روايات وقصص ضمن Old Wounds

Some wounds take more time than others to heal and some wounds never heal they keep bleeding. Once in a while someone comes along ; and the pain you feel in your heart becomes a thing of the past and your wounds start to heal from the inside out and not just only on the surface . The strongest people let their wounds bleed they don’t cover them up . When you cover wounds up you have to open the bandage and every time you gave to change the bandage its more painful to rip it off than it was before . At some point they are going to need air and you have to bleed in order to heal .

Yet for all my intent to protect myself, I dig my fingers into his thigh. “But I’m human. I don’t heal as quickly as werewolves, so couldn’t that explain why the mark is still there?” Owen narrows his eyes at me. “Maybe, but you received the lashings the next day. Those wounds were much worse, and they’re almost completely healed.” That’s a good point. Owen wraps his fingers around mine that are stabbing into his thigh, slowly pulling my hand away. I let him gently massage my hand before interlacing our fingers.

I hadn’t recast it. I only had the edges smoothed and left the fire cracks where they were. Some wounds do not need to be hidden. They should be seen. They are proof that Westmore stood up again.

The injury looked recent; the edges were still raw. Dean’s heart skipped a beat, panic flooding his chest. He immediately called the butler, urgently requesting that a doctor be sent over. The doctor arrived swiftly, and after a thorough examination, he spoke with a grim expression. "The wound has reopened and become infected. On top of that, he hasn't rested properly and has been drinking, which triggered the fever. Make sure he doesn’t drink again and avoid any strenuous movements. If the wound opens up further, it could become much worse."

Dorian sat in his chambers, leaning back in a chair, his body still recovering a little bit. His wound, though it had started to heal rapidly, but it continued to throb with a deep ache. His body’s accelerated healing process was a gift, but it was far from perfect, and the pain served as a constant reminder of how far he had pushed himself. His mother, Ulva, moved around him with grace, tending to the wound, her every motion filled with care and precision.

Proof that the truth doesn’t always win out and really ambitious and resourceful people can get away with multiple attempts at m*rder. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about that. Scars are just something that stay with you forever. I do know that sometimes the ones that have silver in them will open up if I take a hit too hard, like they are fresh. I never understood that, they are a year old now, they shouldn’t still open up, but maybe that’s the silver, maybe I am too weak to heal from them properly. They are a reminder of one of the worst situations of my life, but at the same time, I am still here with them so they also show that I survived. I don’t know if I want them to go away, but

Fresh blood welled from the wound, deep and ugly, the edges red and swollen with early infection. Maren clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Torn worse than before. You've been fighting on this." It wasn't a question. The old healer's eyes were hard as she reached for a clay jar of dark salve. "This is going to hurt." Natasha didn't respond. She fixed her gaze on the tent wall and braced herself. The salve hit the wound like liquid fire.

Closing in. Like something was waiting... For me to stop breathing. And this time... No one would be fast enough to save me. The pain never eased. It stayed. Slow. Heavy. Wrong. Somewhere deep inside, I understood why. Lycan wounds. They didn't heal like ordinary wounds. They lingered. They burned. As if the body refused to forget what had hurt it. A weak sound escaped my lips. I didn't even realize it until I heard a voice. "Ssh..."

Others simply gaped, weapons half‑raised. Kael sucked in a ragged breath. Coughed. Blood sprayed Aria’s face, then thinned as the next cough came clearer. His eyes snapped open. Gold. Sharp. Alive. The worst of the wounds along his side had closed—not fully, not neatly, but enough that bone no longer gaped white through the red. The sickly discoloration of wolfsbane burns had faded, replaced by angry, clean edges of new scar. Aria sagged with relief.

There are cold metal scalpels in there, alongside the items he’s asking for. When I have them, I kneel by his side. “Put the ointment on the wound.” “What is it?” I twist off the lid. It smells sharp, like alcohol. When I smear it onto the gash on John's side, he shrieks. Blake grabs his shoulders and pins him down. “It’s to kill the bacteria. Wolves heal fast, but wounds can still get infected. Now, sew it up.” “Sew it up?” “Yes. Imagine you’re sewing a dress.”