Hurt
Chapter ten
She was not sure what she had meant to do, actually. She just knew he had been there, right there, at the edge of the barely scabbed-over wound of her garden, and though her strength had been gone, some last surge of power had burst forth from her, sending him tumbling to the rocky ground.
In her panic, she had made the sand soft, begged it to fall away from him, but she had little control of rocks. Rock belonged to the fire fae, whose heat could melt it, reshape it. All she could do was wear it away, not tell it not to harm, to move, to protect…
She rushed to Ethan’s side.
There it was—a hard white chunk poking out of the sand. The visible piece was just six inches or so across, but that was the barest tip of the stone slab. And now it was marred with a small smear of blood.
Blood was not spilling fast from Ethan’s head, though, which was a small favor.
She could not see if his chest was moving under his useless armor, but she could see a strong pulse in his throat.
The sand obeyed her request to lift him higher, supporting him to the nape of his neck so that she could inspect his injury.
There was a scrape beneath his thick red-gold hair, rapidly swelling as it oozed blood, but the rock did not seem to have…dented him, at least. Not that she knew anything about medicine. Not that she knew how to save a life spilling itself onto the pavement…
The thought sent a sick wave of memory through her, followed by a hot rush of determination.
She had not been able to help Tristan, but she could help this man. Help him recover from the wound she had inflicted.
A wound she wouldn’t have had to inflict if he’d listened to her and just gone away, of course, but she could argue with him about that later.
When he was crying out her name in bitter defeat because she’d won.
It was inarguable now. She was conscious, and he was not.
She was whole, and he was injured. She was clearly the victor.
She did not feel victorious.
And she could not just leave him there, either. “I still do not like you,” she grumbled as she shifted his head away from the rock.
His lack of answer was more irritating than anything he had ever said.
Her strength had not yet returned, unfortunately, so she could not easily fetch his cooler, but the cans of mead in his backpack were still cold. She was just tucking them under his head, cajoling the sand to hold them securely against the lump, when his eyelids fluttered open.
“Ow,” he said in a faint voice.
“You are awake,” Mara replied frostily. “Can you stand?”
“Maybe,” he said, his vowels long and stretched. He squinted up at her. “Stop moving so I can decide.”
“I am not moving. I am—”
The change in his expression alerted her, and she pushed his body away just in time for him to heave the contents of his stomach downhill. She held his shoulders as he vomited, to keep him from rolling onward into the foul, wet sand.
“Sorry,” he muttered, spitting. “What was I doing?”
“Standing,” Mara snipped, easing him onto his back again. His eyes were closed again, but his forehead was creased with thought, not the smooth dullness of unconsciousness.
“Ah.” He grinned weakly. “Not doing a very good job, am I?”
“You hit your head on a rock.” She folded a layer of sand over the wet patch of sick, tucking the smell away. Her strength was slowly returning, now that she wasn’t using it to repel Ethan’s invasion.
“That explains a lot.” He blinked one eye open. “Okay, now there’s only one of you. Though I think there might be two skies.”
“If there were, how would you be able to tell?” Mara looked away, down at her hands, which had landed on his armored chest. The canvas had torn in several places, revealing the plastic beneath.
“It’s a vibe,” he sighed. “A two-sky vibe. Kind of…fuzzy around the edges.” His chest heaved under her hands in another sigh. “Something feels nice.”
Mara jerked her hands back. “Are you saying you are unhurt? Because—”
“No, the hurt is definitely not…unhurting…” He gritted his teeth. “Shit. Yes, things hurt. I am hurt. But there’s a nice…” He turned his head slightly from side to side. “Cold. There’s a cold…niceness. Less hurtness.” His eyes opened suddenly, both of them, fixing on Mara. “Do my eyes look weird?”
“I do not—” In the bright sun, his pupils were tiny, and she could see the way the blue and gray shaded into each other, like stormclouds. She huffed. “They look like eyes.”
“No, are they, like, wonky and…bigger and smaller and…concussiony?”
“That is not a word.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I assure you, I do not.”
He laughed faintly. “So you’re not an EMT.”
Mara shivered, sirens and lights flashing through her head. “No.”
“Okay. Okay.” His eyes fluttered shut again, but he was smiling. “Just one more piece of the puzzle. Or a piece not of the puzzle. Outside. Process of elimination. I’ll get you pinned down yet.”
Mara did not want to talk about herself, about being pinned down or solved or anything of the sort. “Do you…hurt elsewhere? I am not able to see…” She gestured vaguely at his body, but then, realizing his eyes were still closed, rapped lightly on the hard canvas curved across Ethan’s chest.
He frowned and shifted his body in minute increments, arms and torso and legs. He let out a curse. “Right ankle’s fucked somehow.”
“It hurts?” Mara moved down to regard his lower legs. His left looked much like his right, but of course he was wearing boots and jeans and armor.
“Some. Mostly it feels…thick. Don’t wanna move it.”
“Very well.” Mara pushed up to her feet.
Ethan sat halfway up, then sank back again with a groan. “Where are you going?”
“To fetch your supplies.” Mara turned and looked down at him. He should look small, lying injured on her hill, but instead he seemed larger than ever. “I do not have more things that are cold, nor do I have bandages. And you will require food.”
“You’re gonna…take care of me?”
“So that you can leave faster,” Mara said in her most cruel tone of voice.
He laughed again. “Ooh, sounds like I’m getting a spanking.”
“Must you laugh at everything?”
His expression shifted, grew solemn. “No. I’m not… I’m not laughing at you.”
“But you are laughing near me,” Mara said, bitterness choking her throat. “You are here on my hill, and you are laughing, and you are…”
“I know,” he breathed, barely above a whisper. “And you won. You defeated me.”
Mara paused, glancing back at him. “I did.”
“I should go.”
Yes, you should, Mara thought, but aloud, she murmured, “You cannot. Not until your head is improved. It is not safe.”
“And here I thought you wanted me to drive off a cliff.”
“I have never said that.”
“You looked it.”
“I did not—” Mara huffed and fled into the sand, refusing to continue the foolish children’s argument.
She did not fetch everything Ethan would need, not on this trip, just his cooler, the sunshade, and the large first-aid kit he’d left at his camp that morning.
It was later in the day than she’d realized, though there were yet a few hours until the sun would depart.
She would need to fetch his tent before sunset, and his air mattress, perhaps…
Ah, gods, she was nurturing him now. How ridiculous. She should make him walk down the hill and drive away despite his injuries, her only concession to his humanity unbarring his downward passage so he could leave.
But even as she thought it, she knew she would not do it. She was already heavy with guilt at his injury, and while she still did not like Ethan, she would also dislike herself more if she were to treat him so.
When she returned, he was fussing with the fabric ties at his hips, though his fingers were slack and shaky. His eyes were closed again.
“Lie still,” she said sharply, depositing her burdens beside him. “And open your eyes.”
“You’re back,” he said. “I was waiting for you.”
“You are unable to walk.” She went to her knees and opened the first aid kit, frowning at it.
How did one bandage a head wound when there was hair in the way?
Did she need to shave his head? Such a waste, she thought, and then grimaced at the thought.
It was just hair, and she cared about it as little as she cared about him. “You had no choice but to wait.”
“No,” he said stubbornly. “I wasn’t just waiting waiting. I mean, I was. Obviously. But this was specific waiting. You had to be here for this.” He cleared his throat.
“I am trying to—”
“Maraaa!” he bellowed, reaching high as if in supplication. His cry echoed off the hills around them. “I curse this, the day of my defeat at your hands! You have won and I have lost! I concede my defeat! Maraaa!” He flopped his arms back to his sides. “Ow. Does that do it?”
Why did she suddenly want to cry? “I suppose.”
“Sorry it was a little weak. I can try again when the world stops spinning.” He glanced at her sidelong. “It just seemed a waste not to do it now, when I have two uncaring skies.”
“There is only one sky,” she said, looking at her fingers riffling uselessly through the packaged bandages. She should choose one.
“Usually,” he agreed affably, then fell silent, closing his eyes again.
It should feel blissful, the silence. It was all Mara had wanted for days, to be alone with the buzz of bees and the calls of desert birds.
But instead it was oppressive. Unnatural.
Peaceful nature might be her own natural setting, but it felt wrong for Ethan.
Another reason why he should have left long ago.
He made her feel that she herself should speak, made her want to break the silence with—
“I’m not asleep,” he said.
“I…did not think you were.”
“I know I’m not…supposed to sleep with a concussion. But I feel like Dracula, you know? The light, it buuurns.”
“I’m sor—” Mara stopped the apology on her lips. She was not sorry! This was his own fault! “I have your sunshade,” she grumbled instead. “I suppose I could set it up.”
“Thank you,” he said in a soft voice, sighing when the shade was in place. “You are a goddess among women.”
“I am not a goddess.”
“I was being metaphorically complimentary,” he said, voice slightly slurred. He turned his head slightly from side to side. “How bad is it? Do we need to amputate?”
Mara rolled her eyes. “You wish me to amputate your head? Gladly.”
“Ooh, tough crowd.” He chuckled and linked his hands over his stomach. “Give it to me straight, doc. What’s the diagnosis?”
“I…” She huffed out an annoyed breath. “I do not know what to do. There are too many different bandages, and you have too much hair.”
He turned his head to the side, regarding her. Now that he was not in the bright sunlight, his eyes were a gentler color, and there was a surprising softness to them. “Is there a lot of blood?”
“Some, but not…” She gestured vaguely. “Not a dangerous amount.”
“And how long was I out?”
“A minute? Perhaps two.”
“Okay, I’ve had worse.” He let out a groan. “I fucking hate concussions.”
“You’ve had a…concussion…before?”
He grinned, almost as bright as normal. “I have interesting hobbies. I tend to get hit on the head a lot. Though usually I have a nice padded helmet to mitigate the risk.”
“Ah.” Mara held back all the questions that horrifying statement inspired. If she asked about his interesting hobbies that involved getting hit on the head frequently, he would likely never shut up. “There is water, if you need it.”
“Yes, please.” He started to sit up, groaned, and lay back down.
“Here.” Mara leaned forward and carefully dribbled water into Ethan’s mouth, though he insisted on paying no attention to his canteen, instead watching… Ah.
She sat back abruptly, tugging at the neckline of her gown.
Ethan blinked at her. “Thank you,” he said at last. “That helps a lot. I… I should definitely go.”
Should she be offended that a glimpse of her bare breasts had convinced him to do what she’d been asking him to do all along? Perhaps she should have danced naked earlier. When he was not injured and could actually leave under his own power. “I do not think—”
“No, I got this. A sprain is nothing. And we’re back down to one sky again. I’m good.”
“Are you?” Mara peered closer. His forehead was creased with strain, and he was trembling.
“Yeah,” Ethan muttered. He struggled to stand, favoring his right leg. “I got this. I’m just—” His words broke into a whimpery screech when he stepped with his right foot. He fell back to his knees. “Shit. I don’t got this.”
“Do not be a fool,” Mara grumbled, helping him ease back down to the sand. The mead cans she’d set under his head were no longer cold; she set them aside.
He grinned weakly. “I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam.” He mimicked a tooting whistle. “Do you like yams? Not the candied ones with marshmallows. Nobody likes those. We pretend to like them for tradition but…” He trailed off, frowning vaguely. “What was I talking about?”
“I do not know.” Mara tried to make it forbidding, but it came out soft. “Does speaking help with concussions?”
“Probably not,” he slurred.
“Then be silent. Rest.” She hesitated, then set a careful hand to his brow. “Can you tell me how to…fix you?”
He wheezed out a laugh. “Well, for starters, don’t make me laugh.”
“It was not a joke.” She yanked her hand back.
“Mara, there are at least three jokes for the asking in the whole fixing me thing.” His face fell out of its smile into a pained grimace. “Sorry. I’m being a dick. Thank you for the offer. You are very generous.”
It should not have stung, but it did, because she knew it was a lie.
She was not generous at all. She was greedy, stingy, selfish, and he lay injured because of it.
Even now, she was not helping him because she was kind or good, but because she wanted him to leave the space she had claimed as her own.
But she was tired of arguing.
She forced a smile to bloom on her face and set to work.