Rowan bounced back quickly, as she always did. For her small size, she was an uncommonly tough little creature. Levi watched her with an amused smirk as she skipped past her own hammock and made a beeline for his, arm outstretched with the casual arrogance of royalty. Always so bossy. On another night, he might have tussled with her; Levi often took delight in needling her short fuse until her tail puffed up in a fit of impotent fury. But tonight, they were both exhausted and wounded, and he wanted a drink too. So he half-stepped, half-stumbled to the kitchenette, pulling out a dented tankard and a small, chipped teacup. He filled both with wine, rich and red, and handed the teacup to her waiting paw.

The man he had stolen it from had gone on about it being a rich, expensive brew with many long French words Levi didn’t remember or understand. To him, it didn’t taste much different from any other red wine. But then again, Levi was hardly a man of culture or refinement.

With Rowan’s drink delivered, he slumped into a chair at the round table with a loud groan, taking a long swig from his tankard and grimacing at the wine’s dryness. Now that the adrenaline from the night’s events had drained away, the state of his body unfolded like a slowly uncrumpling piece of paper. Exhilaration melted into a sea of exhaustion, and Levi felt every movement in his limbs with painful clarity. He craned his head back at an awkward angle to inspect the slash on his flank. Four parallel ragged lines marred his hip. Three of them were shallow, but one gash was wide enough to still be oozing blood.

Barely needing to get up from his spot at the table, Levi stretched a long arm to the kitchenette and rummaged through a drawer until he pulled out a well-used first aid kit in a burlap pouch. With the rote precision of someone who had done this dozens of times, he threaded a suture through the needle and stitched the deepest part of the cut closed. Patching up himself and his ship’s sails had made him a rather capable sewist. Once satisfied, he unceremoniously shoved the kit aside and prodded at his flank, flexing his leg experimentally. He was quiet and focused throughout the process, falling into an easy, tired silence as the ship swayed with the gentle lapping of the waves.

“How’s your leg?” he finally asked her, slumping back into his seat with a lazy, sprawling posture.