18. Chapter 18
Isla stared at the door, still rattling in his wake, her pulse hammering in her throat. His words seemed to hover in the air.
Do you think being alone makes you strong?
Why did he even care? More importantly, why did she care if he cared?
Frustrated, she reached to wrench the tie from her hair, hissing at the flame of pain that shot down her arm. Right.
In the bath chamber, she twisted open the taps, letting the soothing sound of the running water wash over her.
As the tub filled behind her, she slowly pulled the tunic over her head, careful this time not to pull suddenly at the marred skin of her shoulders.
She stepped out of her dirty trousers, kicking the pile of clothing into the corner of the room.
Glancing down at her body, she was mildly surprised to see a number of other little scratches and bruises she’d picked up after only a couple of days on the road.
It’s just a natural human shortcoming. She frowned at the memory of Vaelin’s frank warning of her fragility, wanting to rail against his assessment, to prove him wrong.
But she couldn’t. She was so tired, so sore, and after such a short amount of time.
A growing uncertainty gnawed at her… they weren’t even out of Terravern yet and she felt as though she’d been unceremoniously tossed down a particularly rocky hill.
Her stomach roiled with a sickening mixture of doubt and embarrassment.
She stepped into the tub, sinking slowly into the hot water.
A groan escaped her lips and she closed her eyes as the heat enveloped her like a lover, wrapping around her body, sinking into her sore muscles.
Her shoulders dipped beneath the water, and she gritted her teeth at the burn until it dulled to a steady ache.
Had she been a fool to think she could do this?
An image of those fresh graves just outside the inn rose in her mind, and she thought of Oren, Cael, and everyone else back home.
Of Neve, cold in the ground. How many more deaths had there been since she’d left Rowanmere?
She lifted a hand, letting the bath water run through her fingers and down her arm.
It would be inconvenient for me if you died, he’d said.
Isla squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her wet hands against them until tiny starbursts appeared behind her eyelids.
She should be home, healing people as she always had, easing their pain and suffering.
She was good at that. She knew how to do that.
If she died trying to locate a cure, was it really helpful to anyone?
Rising regretfully from the soothing heat, she stepped out of the tub and wrung out her hair.
Wrapping herself in a towel, she tucked the corner under her arm, and padded lightly over the wood floors in her bare feet to where she’d left her bags.
Reaching for her satchel, she pulled out the calendula she’d picked yesterday, along with a utility knife, a small jar of oil, and a few strips of fabric.
Placing the supplies on the table, she ran her fingers over the vibrant, golden flowers, recalling Vaelin’s annoyed expression when she’d dismounted suddenly, having spotted a flash of orange beneath heavily needled branches.
Calendula was ideal for soothing burns, blisters, and other inflammation, but it wasn’t something Isla typically had access to.
It grew closer to the Vaeloran border, preferring the cooler, mountainous climate.
She had begun to explain as much to Vaelin, but he hadn’t been interested. Of course he hadn’t.
She chopped the flowers into something like a coarse powder with the flat of her utility knife, their telltale spicy scent drifting into the air.
Pulling the stopper from the jar, she added the calendula to the oil, warm from being baked in her leather satchel beneath the sun all morning.
She held the jar up to the light that poured through the window, examining the mixture.
Ideally, she’d have liked to have melted it in beeswax to create a solid balm - much easier to spread - but it would be just as effective in this form after it had some time to steep.
A curl of steam caught her eye, rising from the tray of food Vaelin had left on the table.
Her mouth watered as her eyes landed on the rich-looking, brown stew, slices of bread and cheese on the plate beside it.
Her stomach grumbled loudly as she realized just how hungry she was.
The moment the stew hit her tongue, she closed her eyes, savouring its rich flavour.
The rations she’d packed, along with the berries and mushrooms she’d harvested along the trail were all well and good, but there was something to be said for a home-cooked meal.
She mopped up the last few bites of stew with the bread, sighing contentedly.
Standing with her back to the mirror again, the jar of salve in one hand, she reached the other over her shoulder, probing carefully at the wound. It was an awkward spot to reach, the blisters stretching fairly far down her upper back.
The door hinges creaked, and Isla’s head whipped around so fast, the muscles in her neck loosed a sharp stab of disapproval.
Vaelin stood in the door frame, the top of his head just brushing the wood.
His gaze was locked on her, standing there with that inhuman stillness he was capable of.
Suddenly exceedingly aware of her state of undress, Isla tucked the edge of her towel more firmly under her arm, her skin heating.
Her lips parted, brain scrambling for something to say - a cutting comment, a request for him to leave again, literally any words… then, her eyes snagged on the bundle tucked under his arm.
“What is that?” she asked.
Vaelin seemed to startle into movement again, stepping through the door and closing it behind him sharply without ever breaking eye contact. “Clothing,” he said, tersely.
Another moment of silence passed as they stared at each other, the tension in the room thickening. Isla felt her pulse quicken again - she wished that would stop. His eyes dropped briefly to her shoulders, before flicking back up to her eyes as though he’d wrenched them away from her bare skin.
“Can you help me with this?” she heard herself ask.
Vaelin blinked, genuinely staggered by her request for help. He cleared his throat, ignoring the warmth that seemed to roll through him, like a slowly rising tide. He dropped the bundle he held on the table, the empty dish ware catching his eye, and something eased in his chest.
He crossed the room slowly, his eyes moving from the jar in her hand, to the injuries on her shoulders, the skin angry and inflamed.
He wrenched his eyes away from her bare skin, only to find her staring at him.
She thrust the jar into his chest with surprising strength, and his hand closed around it instinctively, his fingers dwarfing hers, still slightly damp from her bath.
Her eyes dropped to where their hands met and time seemed to slow for a moment before she turned away, dragging her hair over a shoulder to expose her upper back.
“What do you want me to do?” he muttered.
She turned slightly to glance at him over her shoulder, so that her features were backlit by the sun that stretched through the window. He blinked, momentarily stunned.
“Spread that evenly over the blisters, as best you can. I can’t quite reach,” she said.
Vaelin eyed the bright golden mixture. “You made this from a plant?”
Isla nodded. “Those flowers I harvested yesterday. Calendula. It’s ideal for inflammation, burns, blisters…”
“That’s why you stopped. You were surprised to see it,” he said as he dipped two fingers into the concoction, ”you said it usually grows closer to the mountains.”
She twisted further, her green eyes piercing him. “You were listening,” she said, shock painting her expression, tugging at the crescent-shaped scar above her brow. It wasn’t quite a question, more like a stunned statement of fact.
He felt the corner of his lips tug upward, and he raised his hand, the mixture dripping from his fingers.
Hastily, she faced forward. He touched his fingers to the skin of her left shoulder, gently sliding them over the angry flesh and a shiver ran through her, sending the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. He winced.
“Sorry,” he said, thinking of his hands, heavily callused from decades of wielding a weapon.
“What?”
“My hands - calluses.”
“Oh,” she said softly. “It’s alright. It’s not… it doesn’t hurt.”
He said nothing, continuing to spread the mixture methodically, taking care not to place too much pressure on the wounds and trying not to think too hard about the striking contrast between the way the mixture cooled on his fingertips and the impossibly soft warmth of her skin.
“You should have said something,” he heard himself say, “Told me how bad it was getting.” He waited for her typical cutting response, a reminder that he should mind his own business. But it never came. “Done,” he said softly.
She turned, taking the empty jar back from him.
“Now,” she said, “we add the dressings so I can put some clothing back on without the calendula transferring to the fabric.” She leaned past him to where the dressings lay on the chest of drawers, the towel hiking up to expose a considerable length of her thigh. Vaelin looked away.
Wordlessly, he accepted the strips of fabric she handed him, laying them over her blistered skin once she’d turned away again.
He laid his hands on her shoulders, adding gentle pressure to encourage the dressings to stick in place.
His thumb twitched, brushing the skin at the base of her neck.
He felt, more than he heard her sharp intake of breath, as her pulse quickened in her throat. She spun abruptly to face him.
“Thank you,” she said, in an easy voice that wasn’t hers. “I’m going to go get dressed.”
He nodded as she stooped to snatch her fresh clothing and fled for the bath chamber, the door snapping shut behind her.
He exhaled, dragging a hand over his face.
He crossed the room, considering the bundle of clothing he’d left there.
Hopefully, it would help. She couldn’t keep wearing that harness without some protection.
“What is all that?” her voice threaded through the room, his wind jumping to meet it as he turned to her.
She stood in the doorway of the bath chamber, dressed in a clean tunic and trousers, rubbing a towel through her damp hair.
She looked like she’d lost an entire layer of dirt.
Idly, he thought that he too could likely stand to bathe.
“I picked you up a few things.”
She blinked, as if stunned into silence.
He picked up the vest he had purchased. It was a thick, brown leather and laced up the middle - softened from use, but still fully functional.
“This should help protect your shoulders from more rubs, and hopefully, allow those to heal.” He dropped the vest on the table and reached for the thin leather gloves, glancing up at her again.
“Should save you some nicks and blisters on your hands too, when you’re foraging.
” She stared at him, her eyes shifting between him and the clothing.
Finally, he brandished the travel cloak, a deep green.
“You might not want this now, but you will once we cross into the mountains.
I looked for better boots, but couldn't find any here. We can likely pick some up at the Market in the Pass.” He looked up at her continued silence, and was alarmed to see her eyes shining with unspent tears.
He looked at her with concern, taking an unconscious step toward her. “Is it painful?”
"What?” she said, her voice strained.
He gestured to his shoulder.
Isla glanced down at her own shoulders. "Oh! No… I-" she shook her head as though that would help her untangle her tongue. She gestured weakly to the pile of clothing he still rested his hand on. "I don't know what to say… thank you."
Vaelin blinked, unsteady. He had been fully prepared for an eye roll, a sharp rebuke, a reminder that she didn’t need coddling. That would have been much easier to navigate than the weight of the gratitude in her eyes.
“Do you still want to see the healers?” he asked.