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The Honeycomb was oppressively quiet aside from a hushed buzz of worry and the rumbles of the Efrafans digging above. To one side of the burrow, Hazel and Bigwig were discussing what to do next. Clover would join them in a moment, but right now she didn't want to leave Hyzenthlay alone.
"Hyzenthlay?" she asked softly.
The other doe didn't respond. She hadn't spoken since the warren's shared moment of grief for Holly. She lay still and listless as when Clover had first seen her in the Efrafan prison.
Gingerly, Clover settled down beside her. "Hyzenthlay," she started again, "I won't ask if you're all right. I'm so, so sorry. If there's anything I can do—"
"There isn't."
Her voice was hollow and broken. Clover's heart broke too at the sound of it.
But Clover caught the scent of blood, too close to belong to anyone else. Nosing through Hyzenthlay's fur, still ragged and patchy from her life in Efrafa, Clover found a deep, raw gash near her shoulder. The heady iron-scent made her dizzy. She pulled back sharply. "You're bleeding!"
Hyzenthlay still didn't look at her. "It's nothing important," she said dully.
"Hold still, you're covered in dirt," Clover told her. "Let me clean it."
"I'm hardly likely to die."
"I still don't like seeing my friends in pain," Clover said firmly. She pressed closer, scenting Hyzenthlay's wound again. There were two, she found, in parallel: the result of a vicious scratch. They were packed with dirt and grit from fighting in the dirt and collapsing the tunnels. She let her tongue slip out to graze the wound, picking out a bit of rock.
Immediately Hyzenthlay winced, shrinking away from the touch with a hiss of pain.
"I'm sorry, it's very badly off," murmured Clover. "I've got to get the dirt out or it'll only get worse. Please hold still."
Hyzenthlay nodded and tensed in readiness. Clover tried again, giving the tiniest, most delicate licks she could. The taste was foul, grit and iron and dizzy-sharp blood, but she wanted to take care of Hyzenthlay. Frith knew she needed it, after so long in Efrafa where she could trust no one to take care of her, where even her closest friend had betrayed her. And now that poor Holly was gone…she needed someone. Clover wanted to give her that.
At first Hyzenthlay held herself rigid, enduring it as she had already endured so much, but once Clover had gotten out the sharpest bits of rock and grit, she relaxed slightly. Once Clover worked the grit out of the wound, it bled for a bit, then stopped as she continued. The wound was hot and raw, but she thought she had caught it early enough so that it wouldn't get inflamed, as long as she could keep it clean. She moved on to grooming Hyzenthlay's fur, washing off the dust of battle.
Almost imperceptibly, Hyzenthlay leaned closer into the touch, the heat and comfort and gentleness of it. And while Clover grieved the loss that drove Hyzenthlay to need such comfort, part of her was glad that Hyzenthlay trusted her to give it.