20. Chapter 20 #2
But Isla didn’t have time to reassure her. “I need yarrow,” she barked, adding, “Do you know how to make a thyme wash? And bring me a cloth soaked in honey or oil, whatever you have more of.” Carin nodded mutely, turning on her heel just as Mara returned with the other supplies.
“A lung?” Mara murmured, brow furrowed as she began to clean the wounds thoroughly. Isla gritted her teeth as fresh blood bloomed instantly, “We’ll see,” she clipped. “I need that yarrow!” she yelled over a shoulder, and Vaelin was at her side, a jar of pale powder in his hand.
Beads of sweat rolled down Isla’s brow as she directed Carin to mix the yarrow into a thick paste with the honey. “Thyme wash first, then pack it with the yarrow,” she directed.
“Give me that,” she barked at Vaelin, who handed her the oil-soaked cloth Carin had returned with.
With a smooth, precise movement, she let the fabric she’d been using to apply pressure to the sucking chest wound fall to the floor, hurriedly smoothing the oiled cloth over the wound like a seal, then covering it with a clean, dry wound dressing.
“Pressure, here,” she ordered Carin, who took her place.
Isla’s eyes focused on the rise and fall of the boy’s abdomen as it gradually began to ease, the inward sucking motion abating.
She released a breath in relief, glancing up at Mara, who nodded. The lung wasn’t punctured.
The smell of herbs mingled with the metallic tang of blood, threading through the humid air of the cottage, the fire now roaring in the corner.
Isla’s eyes skipped to the remaining chest wounds, where slowly, so slowly, the flow of the blood began to lessen, the yarrow doing its work to clot the blood.
“Okay,” she heard herself saying, her breath coming heavily as she eyed the poker, glowing from the heat of the fire it was buried in. “Now we close.”
He had watched her work from his vigil against the wall, staying out of the way but within arm’s reach in case he could be of aid.
He marvelled at her skill. She’d moved with precision, fluidity — like a dancer hitting each mark with ease, leading a choreography she knew all too well.
Put pressure there, elevate the legs, pack that, apply this.
Despite the urgency, the stakes, her hands had not trembled. Not once.
He’d watched as the sweat rolled off her brow, exhaustion pulling at her features, battling her stubborn determination.
She’d reminded him of a warrior on her own battlefield, fighting against death itself.
One injury remedied only for another to open, fresh blood demanding her immediate attention and threatening to split her focus.
Over the next several hours, she’d fought tooth and nail to drag the boy back from the brink of death.
It was well past midnight when Mara had declared the boy stable, marvelling at her own words in disbelief, and insisted Isla get some rest.
He had fallen into step with her as they had made their way back to the inn through the pitch dark and silent streets, catching her elbow gently as she’d stumbled.
She didn’t argue as his hand found its way to her lower back, supporting her as she swayed on her feet climbing the inn’s stairs.
Neither of them had spoken as he’d guided her gently into the bath chamber to rinse the blood that coated her skin from fingernails to elbows.
She’d closed her eyes as the warm water ran red-brown down her arms and into the sink, swirling down the drain.
She swayed dramatically on her feet, her knees threatening to buckle, and abandoning all pretences, he had scooped an arm behind her knees, carrying her into the main room. She could snap at him for that later.
Setting her on the mattress, he’d gently pulled off her boots, throwing a blanket over her.
He’d paused then, sweeping his eyes over her face, already softened in sleep.
He frowned at the dark circles beneath her eyes and the lines of discomfort that seemed etched into her face.
She was so young to carry such burdens, such self-imposed responsibility.
He wasn’t sure why, but healing that boy had been personal for her.
She’d fought more than just death in that room tonight - her own unspoken battles, as well.
He yawned, jaw cracking, and pulled his own blood-soaked tunic over his head, discarding it on the floor next to his filthy boots.
Exhaustion pulled at him, too. He had been fortunate not to run into whatever creature had attacked the hunting party outside of the village when he’d gone to retrieve the boy.
Judging by the carnage it had left in its wake, he doubted he would have survived the encounter if he had crossed its path.
Grabbing the quilt off the back of the armchair, he moved toward the lit fireplace and the homespun rug where he intended to make his bed for the evening.
“Don’t be stupid,” Isla’s voice had drifted through the darkness, thick and heavy. “There’s plenty of room here.”
“I’m fine on the floor,” he repeated his words from before.
“Vaelin,” she’d said, exhaustion lacing her tone. His pulse had jumped at the sound of his name on her lips. “Just… get in the bed. Please.”
He had hesitated for a moment, then found himself moving across the room on silent feet as though carried by an unseen force, settling carefully on to the bed next to her.
He lay on his back, one arm bent over his head, the other hand resting on his stomach as he stared at her, the moonlight from the window casting an ethereal blue glow over her face.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so close to another person.
Her chest rose and fell with steady breaths as she slept, her lips slightly parted.
Her unbound hair stretched across the pillow, tangled and peppered with dried blood.
Vaelin had experienced over a century of loss. He knew that attachment only led to heartache and disappointment. But she was… inconveniently compelling.
A vision of Sereth flashed through his mind and he winced.
Had he condemned this girl to an untimely death in pursuit of an answer that may not even exist?
He dragged his eyes from her face, casting his gaze out the window, where needled branches whispered against the glass panes.
He closed his eyes, choosing to let go of the apprehension and discomfort for the first time in days, the rhythm of Isla’s breathing reassuring in his ear as sleep pulled him into darkness.