His Wicked Days

Chapter Two

I ran, fast and light on my feet as they pounded down the flat steps that led towards the gardens. A long stone walled pond took up a good length of the space, the water covered in leaves and and debris, and laying at the end closest to the estate was the form of something. Someone. Lifeless and unmoving.

I slammed to a halt when I was close enough to see the body clearly. To see him.

I was trained to find the wounds first. His leg was badly cut, a deep and bleeding gash shredding the trousers along his thigh and staining them red. Bruises were already forming on his chest, his shirt ripped down his side to show the black and blue blossoming along his ribs. His face, too, bore the beginnings of wicked cuts and bruises that would be tender with every word he spoke.

Then I really took it all in. His sharp face, with a strong jaw a little loose, showing off a cut on his lip that I was sure burned to the touch. And his ears, shooting up higher than mine, were tangled in his dirty blond hair that was every colour of hay and sunshine mixed with the brown of the trees and soil. I could tell his body was long, broad, and not at all like Amos's wiry muscle, yet also not the same as a human woodcutter's bulk.

A Fae man, brutalized in what looked very much like a fight he lost, left to die in this ghost of a home.

Who was he?

This is dangerous, Amos told me wisely, and I knew he was right, but the sight of the Fae on the snow, blood all around him, had my hands twitching to my bag. I was a healer through and through, and when I could see his chest still rising and falling I sprang into action.

My knees slammed into the cold stone beneath my feet, and I dropped my bag to my side and opened it wide. I had stolen what I could from my mother's supply but it wasn't much. Simple bandages and pain relievers. Sharp, heavy needles and special thread to sew wounds shut, and as much alcohol as was left in the cupboards.

I reached out, ready to assess the injuries on him, but my hands were shaking.

Imagine it's me, Amos told me, or I told myself, pretending he'd at all approve of what I was doing here.

"I already am," I whispered to the wind, the blood pooling across the ground making sure I thought only of Amos.

Hands still trembling, I reached out to move the Fae's leg and get a better look at the gash there. It was a stab wound. I'd seen them before, but while parts of it still seemed fresh there were parts that looked like they had already healed over a day. Cuts and scrapes I bore myself often cleared up faster than a human's would, and Amos would often break his fingers or toes with his acrobatics as a child, but they seemed to right themselves in no time. This Fae's body, weakened as it was, healed faster than mine ever would. I had no idea if I'd need to stitch it, so covering it for now seemed best.

I reached into my bag and found a linen wrap and the bottle of alcohol. I shot a quick look at the Fae's face, still and pale and unconscious, and poured some of the alcohol onto his wound. He barely shifted, but I watched his brows furrow a moment as I readied the wrap. It wasn't much, meant only for my own slimmer limbs, so I had to wrap it tight around the Fae's leg to keep it covered and healing. I couldn't imagine, even with the considerable muscle, that he'd be able to put weight on it yet.

I moved to his chest next, forcing my fingers not to hesitate as I ascertained any broken ribs or tried to spot internal bleeding. Other than the bruises already forming, which Fae or not would make walking and breathing a challenge, nothing felt broken.

So I moved onto his face. Even beneath the bruises and blood it was startling, sharp lines and strength with grace and softness. It matched the day dreams I'd created from the stories that old woman gave Amos and I. Of the drunken memories our mother sometimes shared about the father we'd never met, and she'd never forgiven.