There was a blast of light, then an explosion. The sky pulsed with thunder and lightning in the absence of volley. Everyone in the moors heard it, but no one knew the source. The storm that danced over them wasn't of water, but of fire.
"Come any closer and I'll kill you!"
The young man growled at the girl, burying himself in a mound of hay. If he was ever vulnerable, this was his weakest point. His claim was dead, and his power gone. Blood gushed from a gash in his abdomen, staining the brown earth beneath him.
"Let me be, or you'll sorely regret it," he hissed again.
The curious woman held a lantern, approaching him in the pale moonlight. The firestorm roused her from bed, and in the absence of her brother, she stepped outside to find a trail of inky liquid leading to the barn. She shined the light on his face cautiously, realizing in an instant that he was too ill to carry out his threats.
"You're hurt," she remarked. "Please, let me."
The man resisted at first, but quickly realized that it was no use. She dabbed her fingers over his wound and held them up to the light. If there was one thing that was clear, this was no ordinary man. The blood pouring out of his wound wasn't the same ruby stain of other men. It was thick and black.
Black as coal.
Instead of pulling away, she tended to him. Did that mean she knew? A man of great loathing, his alliances were steeped in fear and power. Now that it was gone, he had only enemies.
"What do you want with me?" He growled as she reached into a satchel on her hip.
Using the little strength he had, the fugitive gripped her arm. The sheer force caused her to tumble to the ground, a copper mane falling over her face. She sat up and jerked her head, twisting the gingery locks into a bun and knotting it at her neck.
"I'm trying to help you!" She asserted, deep azure pools on her face conveying the opposite of malice.
He fell into silence. She wasn't appalled by the color of his blood or the sharpness of his tongue. None of it mattered as much as healing him. She was actually being kind.
"You perplex me, woman. For the first time in my existence, I don't understand the motives of such a simplistic creature," he sighed, pain still fresh.
"What don't you understand?" She hummed as she worked, trying to keep him focused on something other than the gaping wound in his abdomen.
She pressed the flesh together and bore down on it with a torn bit of apron to soak the blood. Up close, it wasn't as mortal as the stain made it appear. Was it a trick of her eyes? As she approached him, it looked like a gaping hole in his body. Now, it was a smaller slash.
Battle wound, she was sure. There were bugles sounding in the mountains already, the Highlanders always ready for a fight. But, here? It didn't make sense. The healer searched the room and caught the scent of whisky mixed with the aroma of gore. Cal had been drinking again. She saw the amber liquid in the corner of her eye and reached for it. She uncapped it, sending it down in a harsh waterfall, flushing the dirt from his wounds. The man on the floor sweated and writhed, speaking in a raspy voice.
"Why do you waste your time helping me?"
Men murmured the strangest things when they were in pain. The healer found it best not to contradict them, nodding along and asking softly for clarification when needed.
"Why wouldn't I?"
"If you knew, you'd believe it wise to keep your distance," he darkly replied.
"And why would that be?" She was still unable to grasp what he was saying.
"Because when I'm strong – I'm able to do things that you will never understand in your petty form. I'm a wolf, and you're a silly little ewe."
By his tone, she had every right to feel insulted. The statement could have very well been construed as a blow to her family or class. But, she didn't stand down. She had a unique understanding of the things people meant when their mouths said otherwise.
"You think you're stronger than I am, so I shouldn't help you," she began, "There's an old parable about a lion and a mouse. The lion was in pain from a thorn in its paw. No one dared help him in fear of what he might do once he was free. The only one who came to him was a mouse."
"Foolish creature. What then? The lion ate it? What in Plateau's name does this have to do with me?"
"You seem clever. I didn't think it would take you very long to figure it out."
The man snarled at her again, but the young woman only rolled her eyes. The woman still took no offense at his harsh, helpless words. She held her breath and continued pouring alcohol over his wound. The astringent caused him such seething that he squirmed. That was when his insults fell silent.
"No, the Lion didn't eat the mouse. He only wanted relief from his pain. The mouse was bold enough to approach and remove it, under the condition that he wouldn't eat him afterward. The lion agreed – probably willing to betray the agreement once he was relieved. Then, the mouse took his nimble hands and removed the thorn from the beast."
"I suppose this is where he betrays the creature..." He mumbled in a daze. The young woman curled her lips into a slight smile.
"No. Once the pain was gone, the lion was made new. He became indebted to the mouse, promising him a favor. They became allies, bringing out the very best in each other despite their differences," she said in a near whisper. "That's why – even if you are as you say, I'm not afraid. Whoever you might be, it's my obligation to help you."
"That's nonsense," the wounded one quickly objected. "I tell you this now – even if your stories have virtue – you don't know what kind of lion you're dealing with."
"Even if I don't, maybe it's time that this lion is helped by the mouse."
Now the man was in awe. No one had ever been this kind to him by choice – none of them as brave to approach him as she had been. Anyone with eyes could see the color of his blood. It wouldn't have taken much to figure out that the color of his blood may have very well been the same color as his heart. The woman reached into the satchel on her hip, pulling out a pouch of dried herbs. He tried to find an ounce of selfishness in her eyes, but he couldn't. It entranced him.
"This might hurt a little, but not as much as the whisky," she informed him. The girl quickly pulled a roll of gauze out of the bag. She took a small patch of the roll and tore it, using it to absorb more of the blood before she packed it with the herbs. They didn't touch his flesh, but they were strong. The solution sent searing pain into him at first touch.
"This is worse than the sword," he sweated.
Even in the end, the Darkness kept him from feeling the slaughter. The Darkness gone, he was numb no longer. Because of that, it was beyond simple pain. It was unbearable.
"That happens sometimes," the girl remarked, removing the pouch of herbs and taking a needle and thread from her pocket. "You were bleeding a lot, but it seems to have tapered off some. Whatever got you didn't get to your organs. That's a good thing."
"It doesn't feel like a good thing," the man shuddered, still sweating. The girl began stitching him back together as a tear in linen. She moved her needle skillfully, weaving back and forth so that the skin would heal perfectly.
"When you were wounded, your adrenaline kept you from feeling the pain. Cal brought me a man from his brigade with a dislocated shoulder once. Broke his collarbone, too. Fell out of a tree during some scouting exercises. Not a small man, either. Probably cracked the branch they had him out on. Not a flicker of pain in his eyes. I set the joint back in place, which is usually the part that makes men scream, but this one felt nothing."
"A mighty warrior," the man rolled his eyes.
"An hour later he began screaming and asking for his mother."
The man wanted to laugh, but it was too raw. The pain from his own wound was still searing. The bleeding was mostly done, now it was just remnants. The girl stopped for a moment, looking at the liquid on her fingers. It was no longer the color of a raven's wing.
It was a very human red.
Not only had his blood changed color, but his wound was closing before her eyes. The skin stitched itself back together and threatened to eject the cord. She saw the skin between the stitches turn from raw gash to well-healed scar. She tore off the rest of his shirt to make sure she hadn't missed something. The skin on his chest and back was littered with old scars, but there was nothing abnormal in it.
"Thank you," the man whispered a minute later. It was as if the pain in him had suddenly gone away.
"I don't know what's happening..." the girl exclaimed. She beckoned him to lie down again, slightly afraid of the unexplained turn. "Don't move! Please. I have to – I have to remove the stitches."
She gently placed his head on the hay. The sun was on the horizon now, and the slight rays illuminated her features divinely. Her face was a downy mist topped with fine pink lips and a small, rounded nose. As she worked to undo her mastery, the usurped ruler studied her womanly curves. It placed a hunger in him that he knew well.
"Who are you?" The man suddenly asked. She looked over at him for a second, the brushed her eyes back towards the wound as if it the question was nothing.
"Briar," she quietly answered.
"Briar," he echoed in amazement. "Your deeds will never be forgotten."
"It's nothing –" she started, but was quickly hushed.
"No. You have helped a lion...and he is in your debt."
Briar looked down and smiled, blushing.
"And what is this lion's name?" She beckoned, flashing him an inquisitive look.
The man looked deeply into her eyes and squeezed her hand. Then, he kissed it. This kindness was no spontaneous act. It was something worthy of great reward, a sign that this woman must have been meant for great things. It was not by chance, but by fate that she had found him on this day.
"Faolan."