Old Wounds Novels & Stories

"It's a wound caused by some sort of sharp knife. It looked like an old wound that was near recovery, but I don't know why it seems like someone stabbed the same spot again. The wound is fresh, and I think it happened within a day. He only sanitized it and that's all. There's no sign of sutures. "It's not very serious, but the aftereffect could be severe if it isn't treated with care since it was an old wound." She then passed a consent letter to Gwen. "Sign this, and we'll attend to his wound."

I said and then ran to the clinic with Addison. After looking at the wound, I did the best I could to stop their condition from getting worse. I don’t like any of this even one bit. I looked around at their wounds and they seemed to be rotting. And there was a distant smell coming from their wounds. Lycans have been fighting for decades; it’s the same with werewolves as well. The rouges have been fighting with Lycan for a long time. But this has never happened; it’s never been heard before that a wound inflicted by a rogue doesn’t heal.

There were obstacles everywhere. And some open wounds, and they never fully healed.

The wound had healed poorly and now caused him constant pain. "The regular doctors said there was nothing they could do," he explained nervously as I examined the injury. "They said I would just have to live with the pain. But then I heard about your center. About how you can heal things other healers cannot." I placed my hands on the poorly healed wound and let my power flow. Golden light spread across his skin as I carefully broke down the scar tissue and rebuilt it correctly. The young wolf gasped as the pain that had plagued him for months disappeared.

After saying that, Lugh locked eyes with Logan, attempting to discern if Logan was merely trying to scare him. Logan maintained an impassive expression as he replied, "Two winters ago, your wound reactivated, and it actually worsened. At the time, you paid it no mind. Your injury will worsen as it has reached a relapse phase. It's just that you are unaware of it. "If you wait around and do nothing, your wound will soon rupture. The original scar will tear open again. I won't turn you away if you wait until then to seek treatment. I'll still welcome you as a patient regardless."

He filed it as such. The information said: the healing is real and it is not complete. The healing is a process with no arrival point. The sensitivity in the specific register of the old harm is not a failure of the process — it is a characteristic of having been genuinely harmed. It is the scar tissue. Scar tissue is not wound. It is something different. It protects and it restricts and it reminds.

Livia lay on the left; Marcellus lay quietly on the right. His face was pale, a sheen of cold sweat gathering on his brow. The bandages on his chest had been freshly changed, but a faint trace of red still seeped through. The doctors had said his old wounds had only just begun to heal—yet now, due to overexertion and repeated use of painkillers, the injury had torn open again.

Whatever Old Man had done, it was worse than death. He wanted to lunge for Haemos, tear his throat out, and be done with it. But the raw ache where his arm had been ripped off kept dragging his body back to reality. Blood and fire still sizzled along the torn edge of his shoulder, the stump throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He glanced at the wound and forced his focus inward, initiating his healing process.

They were a rite of passage for any Alpha, a way to prove his worth to the pack. That morning, Oliver retired to his room, exhaustion weighing heavily on him. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the bandage wrapped around his abdomen. The wound he had sustained days ago throbbed with a dull ache. He carefully removed the bandage, inspecting the injury. Though it was healing, the pain was still sharp, especially after the day’s exertion.

“I’m already on my way there.” I found some fainting salts in Missus Lowry’s stock and knelt next to her. She was elderly and didn’t heal as fast as she used to. The gash was closing, but slowly. I yanked a clean rag from her workbench and pressed it against the wound while I uncorked the salts with my teeth, and held it under her nose. The old she-wolf woke with a scream and tried to sit upright. I threw the bottle of salts to the side, and gently pushed her back down with my free hand. “Careful,” I said and rested my hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been injured.”