Things have changed slightly.

With the herbs and roots she gathered, advice from the other prizes, and under her constant attention, Grok regained consciousness within days, and was able to limp around unassisted after a couple of weeks. And when he took his first steps outside of his tent, he was greeted with cheers and salutes from his people, chanting his new title, Still-Tongue. A small smile crept on his face, despite the split lip, and he had to wave them down, not wishing to be seen as a threat to the camp leadership. Even more so when the two youngsters that Zoria bribed, had seen fit to appoint themselves as his personal guards, without asking. It would appear that Zoria had done too good a job at asserting her, and by extension his, influence.

However, he was not only impressed that she had done so, but was proud that she did.

Dismissing them for the night, and boxing their ears when they protested, he shuffled over to the large chair she had somehow acquired for him, and collapsed into it, his knees and back screaming from being on his feet all day. He let out a long exhausted sigh, when the smell of soup wafted under his nose. His nose furrowed and he turned his head slowly at Zoria, who held a spoon out to him, like a mother would her child. "Eat," she ordered, like he did to her when they first met. He frowned and shook his head at her, but her expression soured, and she kicked his bad leg. In mid-yelp, she shoved the spoon into his mouth, and pinned his jaw shut with her thumb, making him swallow it. The bitter and acrid, supposedly healing, concoction burned on it's way down. Grok coughed and sputtered, trying to get the taste out, when she threatened him with the next spoonful. "Eat."

Grumbling, he took the bowl and spoon from her, and not bothering to hide his disgust, ate it in miserable silence. She nodded approvingly at him before pouring out some vile medicinal tea. "Drink," she said, handing it to him. He sneered at it, and she just rolled her eyes. Taking some pity on him, she poured a small measure of wine into it, just to make it more tolerable. "Drink?" Still sulking, he downed it in one gulp, a shiver running up his spine, the flavor making his face twitch. Smiling and chuckling to herself, Zoria kissed the top of his head gently. "Good Grok. Zoria happy. Now go clean Grok, and go sleep. Zoria clean."

He blew out his cheeks sharply, but now knew better than to protest. Getting up slowly, he tromped over to the bucket she had prepared, taking off his armor, wondering if this was how things were going to be from now on. Greatly respected by the People outside the tent, but completely at his prize's mercy inside of it. Perhaps Hrew might have had a point. Maybe he had gotten soft. Maybe all he had to do was wait. When he had his full strength back, he could remind her that he is her master and keeper, not the other way around.

Yes. Yes, that is what he will do. Camp is moving soon to the cold regions. She would not handle the cold well without him. If she wished to stay with him, then all he would have to do is threaten her with leaving her there, if she did not show him the same respect the others did. That is a good plan.

But, come dawn, he changed his mind, and wanted her to stay with him. Forever.