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.
It's just a wounded face, I told myself. You've seen wounded faces. So I tried to be impartial against some repressed emotion as I reached for one of his closed eyes to pull the lid apart to check his pupils. The moment my fingers fell on his skin my wrist was locked in an iron grip.
The short scream I gave echoed around the empty gardens as the Fae's breath came fast. I could see the pain each inhale caused in his eyes, a bright honey gold, as he stared at me with his hand around my wrist.
My heart was pounding behind my ribs, my lips and throat dry, but I found my voice and spoke as calmly as I could. "It's alright," I said as he took me in, his long fingers tight on my skin. "I just want to help you."
He stared at me for a little longer, weakness and pain slipping past his shock, and then he released my wrist and let his arm drop with a thud. Through his ragged breathing, he said, "Leave me."
With those two words his head lolled to the side, away from my gaze, and he took one final breath that sounded like a surrender. But he wasn't close enough to death for it to take him just like that, and those two words chilled me to the bone.
Leave me, Amos had said when I'd tried to coax him into talking. Leave me, he'd told me, yelled at me, whenever I tried to make him smile or make him move. So I had. I'd let him wallow, I'd let him grumble, and I'd let him suffer.
Leave me, his last words to me as I screamed and cried and tried all I could to stop the bleeding. I wished then, so hard that it made me shake, that the bitch of a human girl who had snapped his heart in two could see him there, in his final moments, as he bled for her. But not as much as I'd wished I'd never listened to his demands.
I took in a deep, tight breath and looked at the wounded creature in the snow below me. I blinked the memory from my eyes, but it stayed in my heart. "You need attention," I said to the Fae, though it seemed I was saying it to myself. "The wound on your leg is--"
"Let it fester," he said roughly, "and get away from here." His voice was cold and deep, and it sent a shiver of fear down my spine. I had a suspicion that if he yelled it could bring down the house behind me.
His dark words made my stomach turn. "You need help," I told him carefully. "Let me help you."
"I need nothing," he stated, and he tried to push himself up. The moment he bent his waist he cried out and fell back into the snow with a grimace. I caught his head before it could crack against the stone.
"Take it slow, don't try to move," I said as he struggled for breath. I looked behind me to the massive house, then across the gardens and out towards the rolling fields beyond. "Are you alone here? Do you live here?"
I couldn't imagine anyone living in this vacant place full of disrepair, but when I looked back down I found a set of golden eyes glowering at me. "Get away from here," he rasped out. "I didn't ask for your help, I don't need it."
You certainly do, I thought, but saying it aloud would do no good. I'd handled my fair share of stubborn patients. "You have terrible bruising around your head and chest. It's why you're finding it hard to breathe," I said, just as he tried to take in a deep breath. He looked at me, dazed. "And why you might be a bit delirious. And then there's your leg. The wound there is deep and it could get infected if we don't get you inside."
"Then let it," he grumbled, trying to sit up again.
I shook my head. "Do you want to die from an infection?"
"It would be better that way!"
Birds flew off at his voice, which boomed and echoed around us for far too long. I pulled back from him as his chest heaved and he did his best to keep the pain of it from showing on his face. He fell back on his elbow, the exertion of his sudden anger too much for his battered body.
"Leave me," he warned again, weakly, trying to control his breaths as they came short and shallow. My own breaths were strained, though I was used to yelling, and I swallowed hard as he continued to try and sit up.
"I don't abandon people who need help," I said, my voice surprising him. Surprising myself. I lifted my chin. "That's not in my nature."
He looked me up and down, the fire burning in his eyes the only speck of energy in him now. "Who are you?"
I gulped. "My name is Eve."
"Do you waltz into people's homes without invitation often?" Every word was hard for him.
I frowned. So he did live here, in whatever shell of a home this once was. "No."
"Then get off my property," he snarled through gritted teeth.
Go, Amos told me, his shadow heavy behind me, but my eyes roamed over the Fae's wounds again and I couldn't.
I swallowed hard. "Let me help you first."
"No," he said weakly.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because it doesn't matter," he groaned, but the fright of his voice had warn off a bit.
I gave a little huff. "It does to me." He looked at me curiously from the corners of his eyes, and I stood up and looked about the garden once more. There had to be something I could do to get him up and into the house, and when I spied an old hand cart I thought that might do the trick.
"No," the Fae said, and when I looked down at him he was glaring at me. But then he turned his glare towards the wagon. "You'd never be able to budge it."
I frowned at him. "Then maybe I can lift you--"
"Will nothing I say make you leave?" he yelled, making me jump while the strain made him dizzy.
"Stop shouting like that, it won't help," I scolded him, though my heart was hammering with fear. I spoke to him like the children I'd had to bandage and patch up after little brawls or dangerous stunts. They didn't fear me until they were old enough to understand the prejudices of their own parents, but no one liked being healed because no one liked being vulnerable. This massive Fae man seemed to be no exception, though his apparent desire to die still hung heavy in my chest.
He looked at me, confused, as he struggled for his next breath. "Where did you come from?" he asked as if the very question bothered him to even ask.
I tried not to twitch. "Is that really what you want to discuss at the moment?" I asked.
"I don't want to discuss anything," he said, struggling again to sit up. This time he managed, but the effort made him woozy and he nearly toppled back. I fell down to my knees in time to support him before he hit the ground again, and touching his back was like touching a wall.
"I'm not leaving you out here," I told him, the lines of his ribs through his torn shirt a bit worrying. "And you can't get inside yourself. So please let me help."
He gave me a long stare, one that I knew he was using to try and figure me out, figure out what he could say or do to get me to go. Proving me right, he asked, "If you get me inside, will you leave?"
"No," I said quickly, easily, and he sighed. "At least until I'm sure you won't die if I do."
"Why?" he growled.
"Because it's who I am."
He was surprised, and as the light in his gold eyes weakened so did his stubbornness. "Somewhere there," he said, pointing weakly to a thick and unkempt shrub by the pond. "There should be a cane."
As soon as I was sure he wouldn't fall back to the ground, I leapt up and headed to where he'd pointed. Under the frosty bush I dug out a long black cane with a carved golden handle from a pile of slush.
I turned back to him just as a howl echoed in the distance, and I froze solid while I scanned the trees, the horizon, the fields.
"Quick now," the Fae snapped, making me jump, and I sprinted back to him and handed him the cane. He grumbled something I didn't catch, and then another howl.
"What is that?" I asked, unable to mask my fear as the darkness began to take over the light.
"Wolves," the Fae said, propping the cane up with one hand.
"I thought they only lived in forests?" I asked, quickly gathering up my bag and slinging it over me.
"They travel. But they aren't brave enough to go where there might be people." He was quiet for a moment as I listened for any other sound that might suggest they were brave tonight. Then I heard a grunt. "Give me your hand."
I looked down at long pale fingers waiting for mine. I snapped back to life and took his hand. It was cold but surprisingly soft, and big enough that it took over my palm. I leaned all the way back and pulled with all my strength to get him up.
With the help of his cane we got him to his knees. He hissed through the pain in his leg, blood slipping from the wound as he moved. I slung his arm around my shoulders, crouching to meet him, and on the count of three we pushed off the ground with dual grunts of effort. Finally he was upright, but he wouldn't remain that way long.
I took a tentative step towards the flat stairs leading inside, my legs shaking beneath his weight. I gasped with the effort of each little step, but every time he tried to put weight on his wounded leg he very nearly fell to the ground. "Almost there," I heaved as he gasped for breath, every move making his body shake and tremble along with mine.
When we finally made it passed the glass doors, getting back inside the now shadowed estate, he pulled his arm from me and toppled to the ground with the last bit of his strength gone. I caught my breath a moment then ran to all the doors and closed them tight. One window had been smashed, and I said a silent prayer that nothing would try and find an easy target in the night.
My new patient was struggling for consciousness on the dirty estate floor when I turned back around.
"Slow breaths," I told him, coming to his side and kneeling down. I tore my tattered cloak from my shoulders and folded it up. With steadier hands now I lifted his head and slid the cloak beneath it, setting him back down on something a bit more comfortable than the marble floor. "Take slow breaths."
I dropped my bag off my shoulder once more and did my best to dig through it in the dark. My fingers finally found the shape of the small bottle I needed, and I held it up to the fading light to make sure I'd found the right one.
I tore the cork off the top and held the vial towards him. He pulled away immediately. "It will soothe the pain a bit," I told him. "It's not much but it will help."
He was still struggling for air as he stared me down. "I don't want that." He took in a shaking breath. "I want you...to leave now. Forget this, all of this, and go."
I sat back on my heels and looked down at him. His lids were heavy, and I knew he must be in pain, but he turned his head away from me as if that would make me go. "I'd never be able to live with myself if I walked away and you died tomorrow," I told him. "You would give me a guilty conscience?"
After a few more shallow breaths, he looked back up at me with those bright eyes dim. "You would not feel guilty," he said weakly, the words softer and sadder than anything he'd said before. But before I could soothe him, convince him, or even ask what he meant, he closed his eyes and was unconscious.
I checked his pulse, listened to his laboured breathing, and when it was clear he'd simply fallen asleep from the exertion, I dropped a little of the tonic into his mouth and helped him to swallow it. At least that would help him rest.
I had no idea who he was. I had no idea where I was, sitting here in cold silence in the hollow remains of something that must have once been beautiful. Even the Fae asleep before me, his brows furrowed in a restless sleep, looked too sallow and pale in the dying light. Worn down like his home.
Whoever had beaten him had left him in the garden to die. They'd wanted him to suffer...and he seemed to agree.
This is dangerous, Amos's voice told me again, his shadow appearing in one of the dark corners when I blinked. I looked away, too afraid the image might be real, too foolish to think it could be. Leave him, Eve. Leave him here and barricade yourself in a room elsewhere. In the morning, run as far from here as you can and find life, not death.
But as Amos spoke and I felt his voice echo about me, the Fae below me made a pained sound in his sleep and shifted his leg. I adjusted the bandage to give his muscles room to heal, to keep the blood from flowing and keep the wound from the cold air, and I knew what I was doing. I knew Amos's death haunted me, and I knew that helping this Fae would never change that. But leaving him here would change me.
I was a soft-hearted fool, but I would never forgive myself if I left him here to suffer. I would never let anyone suffer again if there was something I could do to stop it.
I set my shoulders and dug deep into my bag once more. I gathered my flint and tinder, then I scrounged old bits of wood that had crumbled from the ceiling or the intricate wall carvings and piled them close to the Fae's side. I used the skills Amos had crafted in me to coax a fire to life with what little kindling I could find, and the moment light bloomed in the grand entryway I felt a little better, and at the same time I felt insignificantly small.
Quiet and afraid, exhausted and anxious, I wondered if I was destined to never feel any other way.