4A 676, End of Sulunary, Harvest. Six years after the Abyssal War.
The man is going to die. Nura knows this with absolute certainty. He clings to life, fighting with every breath in his body, but Nura sees it in his darting eyes; he knows it too.
She takes an unsteady step back to take in the entirety of the scene before her. Blood drips to the floorboards, running in rivulets through the grooves to leave a stain that will never wash away. Some of it is thick from clotting.
She clenches her jaw, wipes the stark crimson from her hands onto her stained apron, and damns the world for making this her place in it.
"Say your last prayers for him, Frida," the priest urges. He nudges the wide-eyed girl forward, but she's not eager to go. Her feet drag upon the bloody floorboards and her trembling hands twist within the fabric of her shirt.
The dying man raises a hand and beckons the little girl closer to him with a twitch of his fingers. The girl doesn't move, the dark room descending into a beat of silence where only the patter of blood can be heard. Then she launches herself to the man and wraps her small arms around his chest. She buries her face in his neck and Nura can't watch anymore as the little girl weeps against her father's pallid skin.
Each breath he draws is a loud rasp in his lungs, the air escaping his side in a whistle from where the arrow pierced. His arms are too weak to hold his little girl, too weak to even turn his head and kiss her goodbye.
Nura's light blue gaze strays once more to the man's leg, the limb partially missing. It took three of them to remove the bear trap from his leg before they realised the extent of the damage. The poison was already in his blood.
The priest utters soft words, barely audible over the cries of the child.
Nura stays until the man lay still and the girl's older brother takes her away. She stays until the blood stops dripping. She stays until she can no longer feel the wetness sliding between her fingers.
"Nura."
She blinks and looks up at the priest as he regards her with dark eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
"Go home, Nura," the priest says, his voice cold as he gazes upon the man on the table. "Just another casualty of Elven injustice." The priest leaves the rest of his words buried beneath his tongue, but Nura knows they're there. She knows that many people in this village look at her and can only see her large, icy blue eyes, her unblemished skin, and nothing more.
She manages a nod in reply, eager to leave the suffocating presence of the priest before he can begin blaming her for another death.
Nura leaves the home and steps into the brisk night, a chill to the air that crawls into her bones and nestles there. She tries to breathe in the air, but mingling with the pine on the wind is the coppery tang she can never escape.
Another villager dead and she couldn't save him. Just like the last four in the past month.
Nura shoves her hair from her eyes as tears prick at them, but she refuses to cry. She trudges through the muddy street, untying the bloody apron as she goes. The knot tightens, her aching fingers unable to pry away the offending material.
She lets out a curse, a tear drips down her cheek, and Nura lashes out. Her knuckles split on the wood of the home, more blood upon her hands. This time she does feel it and Nura hisses, cradling her abused hand to her chest. It throbs, a heartbeat of pain that flashes up her arm, but she welcomes it to distract her from the ice crawling through her chest.
"There you are."
Nura straightens at the voice, dashing the tears from her cheeks, leaving behind streaks of blood. She takes a steadying breath and turns to the figure that approaches her, the lamps on the street illuminating his wide-set shoulders and tall frame.
"I've been looking for you. I heard there was another accident."
"Accident," she mutters, unable to meet his eye as he stands before her, his gaze roving over her. "He's dead. Just like the others."
"It wasn't your fault," he attempts, his deep voice softening.
Nura glances up at him, her gaze narrowed. "There's always more I could have done." The silence between them is heavy with those words, words she has spoken far too often recently. "I'm a healer, Rephas, yet a cloud of death hangs over me."
"No, it doesn't," he insists, a frown forming between his dark brows. His eyes then catch on her hands, fresh blood dripping from her fingertips. "What happened?" He reaches for her hand and Nura doesn't stop him. His palm is rough with calluses and scars from his life as a soldier, but blissfully warm to Nura's cold.
"I couldn't get my apron off," she admits.
Rephas presses his lips together and shakes his head, concern shining in his eyes as he looks upon her features once again. "Turn around."
Nura doesn't argue, her exhaustion weighing upon her now that her frustration has been snuffed out. He unties the apron and pulls it over her head. Then he leads her to their horses.
"Let's go home." Rephas keeps an arm around her waist and she leans on him, certain she wouldn't have even made it to her horse if he hadn't come when he had.
"We need to stop these attacks," she muses aloud, her eyes already begging her to close them.
"It's not up to us, love. You've already done what you can for these people."
"That's five people this month, Rephas," she argues, leaning away to look at him as they walk. "We can't continue to ignore this, even if we don't live in the village."
Rephas lets out a breath and stops beside his chestnut stallion. "Very well, I'll make certain a letter is sent to the Hold for aid."
Nura gives him her back with a huff. She mounts her white mare without answering him, the silence only adding to the strain in her chest. She grips her reins and tugs them, urging the horse onto the street.
"Is that not suitable?" Rephas asks, his voice tight as he rides beside her.
"You know that's not suitable," Nura bites back. She keeps her gaze upon the shadowed road ahead with her lips pressed into a line.
"What would you have me do, Nura?" he says with a sigh. "Go traipsing into the woods in search of whatever is doing this?" He waves a hand, indicating to the dense trees that surround the small village.
"I would have you help these people as I'm trying to do. You're the one who insisted we live so far from the Hold, yet you refuse to help the people who have given us a home." Nura whips her reins, intending to leave him behind, but Rephas brings his horse around until he stops in front of her, preventing her escape from the exhausting argument.
"You know why we couldn't stay in the Hold," he begins, but Nura just shakes her head, her grip tightening around the reins. It makes her knuckles sting as the cuts are stretched but she cares little. "I understand, Nura. Truly, I do. Your need to help people is one of the many reasons why I love you, but I won't allow you to endanger yourself for strangers."
"It's my job, Rephas," she retorts. "I help strangers, regardless of anything, I help them. I refuse to see more of these people suffer."
"These people treat you like you've spat in their food and you insist upon this path?" he continues, the exasperated note in his tone causing Nura to look away, the reminder just another thing she doesn't need.
Her heritage doesn't give her the right to ignore other people's suffering and she won't allow herself to be the villain they wish for her to be.
"I'm tired of this endless disagreement between us," she admits, her exhaustion creeping back into her bones. She nudges her horse forward but Rephas stays in her way. She opens her mouth to demand he move, but she stops. Rephas' gaze is on the forest, narrowed as he peers into the coiling shadows.
"We stay in the village tonight," he announces.
"That isn't necessary," Nura replies through gritted teeth.
"The roads aren't safe tonight, Nura." He turns his deep brown eyes back to her, a crease forming between his brows. The concern on his face, the vivid fear in his eyes as he looks at her, halts the argument that rises on her tongue. "Please."
That simple word tugs at her heart and she nods, trusting his instincts more than her own.
Rephas lets out a breath and they ride together back towards the darkened village. "Thank you, love."
Nura just clenches her bloody hands and prays to the Spirits for a warm bath and a strong drink.
Nura sits by the fire, waiting for her long locks to dry. She stares into the hues of orange in a transfixed state, dwelling upon all the things that swirl around in her head, demanding her attention.
The village is in mourning. Those that reside within Hearthfire Inn with them are quiet and deep in their cups. Nura cradles her own mug of ale, wondering when this familiar ache in her chest will disperse. Having other's lives in her hands will never be an easy burden to bear. Seeing them slip between her fingers will never stop leaving deep lacerations upon her heart.
Her morbid thoughts are interrupted when a gentle knock sounds on the door. She bids the person entrance and the door opens, allowing the unusual quiet of the tavern beyond to filter in. Only subtle conversation and the crackle of the inn's infamous hearth can be heard.
The end of Sulunary should be a time of celebration and it just makes Nura's heart hurt even more.
The woman who enters is lined and frail but her eyes are hard and her chin is held high. Calla is a Thoruk woman, those that prefer the arts to politics unlike the people Nura call her own; Imgards. Calla carved the beautiful etchings into the stone and wood of the inn that she now calls her own, making it a merry respite for weary travellers and workers.
Nura straightens in her chair as the woman shuts the door behind her, carrying with her a tray of steaming food.
"I thought you might need this," Calla says, setting the tray on the table beside Nura. "It's been a long night."
"You didn't have to do that," Nura murmurs and reaches into her pockets. Calla shakes her head and takes a seat beside Nura before the fire.
"I don't want your coin, child," Calla says, her voice firm as she gazes into the fire. "His children will be well looked after in this village. Frida is a lovely girl that always helps me in the kitchen. Her and her brother will always have a home here." Calla turns sapphire eyes on Nura, her face weathered with the burden of this place and many of the villagers' woes. "You mustn't take all of this upon yourself, Nura."
Nura can only sigh and shake her head. "If only I'd got to him sooner—"
"Stop," she scolds, placing a gnarled hand atop Nura's where she grips her mug. "You know what happened to my husband many years ago and I'm certainly not the first to deal with such a loss."
Nura nods, her brows pinching together. She's heard the tragedy before. She wouldn't wish such loss upon anyone.
"The people who are attacked by Shadow Elves know that the chances of them making it are so slim they may as well not be there at all. My husband certainly knew that and begged me to end his suffering quickly." Calla looks away and draws her hand back into her lap where she smooths her skirt. "No one blames you, Nura, and if they do then they're fools. You've saved more lives in this village than that damned priest could ever hope to."
"It's not enough, Calla."
Calla lets out a bitter laugh and shakes her head. "Of course it's not." She stands and looks down at Nura, a small smile upon her lips even with the sadness in her gaze. "I'd expect nothing less of one of the most gifted healers that served in the war. Get some rest, Nura, and Spirits be with you."
Nura thanks the woman, but she knows she won't be able to sleep tonight.
Some say the rulers of Cirallian have the most blood upon their hands, but Nura looks down and knows with certainty that the healer has the bloodiest of hands.