It was a doe, broken-off spearhead in its side, sitting, bleeding, trembling. Had I been near home, or had a horse-cart nearby, I would have taken the meat for my larder, but instead I took pity. I pulled out the spearhead, gently cleaned the wound, applied a dry poultice…
I swear I didn't know.
They call my people 'The Urnfield Culture' now. I don't remember my original name. I commissioned a statue long ago of the doe-become-woman who gave me this extended life in gratitude for my tender mercies.
I only later learned her name, while living among the Greeks.