Chapter 5 #2
But when he’d seen one of those black clad arseholes kick her right in the face, he’d lost it. He was by her side more quickly than he ought to have been, more quickly than any normal artemian, baring his teeth at Beserkir in a reckless display of menace.
He was lucky his actions had gone unnoticed in the mayhem. If anyone had seen him move so fast, he would have had to have left right then and there. Fortunately, Beserkir wasn’t interested in losing any more of his men and, having taken one look at Keeran, had decided it wasn’t worth the fight.
He’d risked everything to save her and he had no idea why. Just like he couldn’t explain why he’d been unable to stop stalking her all day yesterday, hating himself every second he watched her from the shadows, yet utterly unable to stop.
Keeran sat back on his haunches, finally satisfied that the roof would see out the winter, and looked out over the treetops.
It was beautiful up here, with the rays of the sun starting to break through the dense morning fog, the thousand noises of the forest starting to fracture the sombre hush that had befallen the village.
He watched a squirrel leap into the air, unperturbed by something as inconvenient as gravity as it soared towards the next branch.
It landed with an athletic scuttle of paws and skittered away.
Keeran sighed, sick of the same questions circling in his head. In the grand scheme of things, none of them mattered. He would wait until she was conscious, until he knew she was okay, and then he’d leave.
The Peregrinians would be leaving today anyway, though he hadn’t yet decided if he’d go with them. Beserkir was a nasty piece of work, and Keeran had a bone to pick with him. Or, if he was feeling particularly vicious, he could pick a bone out of him instead. He grinned at the idea.
He climbed back down, playing with the notion as he walked back into the treehouse, wondering if extracting an entire humerus from a living person was even possible, when a groan made him stop in his tracks.
She was waking up.
His heart flipped in his chest, and he clenched and unclenched his fists, psyching himself up before he pushed into the lounge.
Aelia was sitting on the sofa, her head in her hands, looking for all the world like she did indeed feel like she’d got on the wrong side of a horse, and an ill-tempered one at that.
She obviously hadn’t heard him come in, and he stood awkwardly in the doorway, not wanting to scare her but equally unsure how not to.
He settled for clearing his throat.
Aelia’s head whipped to face him, and she moved more quickly than he’d have thought possible, grabbing a mug from the nearby table and launching it at his head. He ducked, narrowly avoiding the ceramic missile as it smashed into the wall behind him.
“Urgh.” Aelia dropped back onto the sofa, her head in her hands again, having gone a ghastly shade of white.
He was next to her in an instant, kneeling by her side as he tried to assess what little of her he could see through her fingers.
“Are you okay?” he asked, wondering if it would be weird to ask to look at her pupils. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“What are you doing here?” she mumbled, weakly.
“I carried you back.” Keeran wished she’d drop her hands. He could see so little of her it was hard to ascertain what might be wrong, though her perfect aim with the mug had proved her motor skills to be unaffected by the head injury, and she seemed to be forming coherent sentences. All good signs.
Aelia went still, then her breathing quickened.
When she lowered her hands, he almost regretted wishing she would.
He could do nothing as a barrage of emotions played out over her face in quick succession, the memories of the night before coming flooding back.
Grief, despair, hopelessness, anger and, finally, hatred.
Hatred stuck, easier to bear than the others. He knew from experience.
What he wasn’t expecting, however, was for it to be directed at him. When her eyes met his, the loathing that seethed in them had him sitting back on his heels.
“You stopped me,” Aelia said, voice low and terrifying. “You stopped me from going to him.”
“Beserkir would have killed you then and there, he’d have made an example of you both,” Keeran tried to reason, a part of him noting that at least the colour was returning to her cheeks.
“That was not your decision to make,” she snapped, lips twisting with anger. He tried not to look, now was not the time to get distracted by her mouth. “I could have made it to him if you hadn’t stopped me, he might still be alive.”
Keeran had been prepared for tears, had been trying to decide how best to comfort her as she processed her loss. He had never, in all the scenarios that had played out in his head, imagined she would blame him.
“I saved your life,” he said, unapologetically. “If I hadn’t tried to stop you, you’d both be dead. Actually, I’ve saved your life twice, and so far, all I’ve got by way of thanks is a bruise between my legs the size of a watermelon. Was it really necessary to put your whole weight into it?”
That wasn’t strictly true. He’d healed already, but she wasn’t to know that. She mustn’t know that.
“You think this is funny?” Aelia stood, towering over him, and he tried not to think about how close she was standing to him. Much as he liked being on his knees before her, he chose to stand too, rising to tower over her instead.
Her eyes widened a little, as if she’d forgotten just how big he was, but she didn’t let it deter her.
“Get out,” she yelled, pointing at the door with a shaking finger.
“I don’t think it’s funny.” He ignored her, not wanting to leave her like this. “I’m sorry for last night, I’m sorry for what happened and for everything that you lost. But I’m not, and never will be, sorry for saving you.”
“You arrogant, interfering, self-righteous prick.” Her whole body began to tremble, her anger seeping out of every pore.
“What gives you the right to make that decision for me? Who do you think you are, that you think I need your help deciding what I should and shouldn’t do?
I don’t even know your name, and you think I need you to save me? ”
He stared at her, dumbfounded. He watched the anger slip from her face, the anguish that replaced it breaking his heart. He went to reach for her, longing to somehow ease some of her pain, but she recoiled from him, tears welling in her eyes.
“Get out,” she yelled. “Get out, get out, get out.”
Keeran took a step back, the relief in her expression as he did cutting right through him. She didn’t want him here; she couldn’t make it any clearer. His gaze dropped to the floor, still not quite believing just how badly he’d misjudged the situation. Then he turned and walked out of the room.
He paused in the hallway, hearing her break down into unrestrained sobs. Realising he might be pushing his luck, he ducked into the kitchen and pulled out the pencil and paper he’d discovered earlier when looking for the things he’d needed to dress her wounds. He quickly scrawled a note for her.
He placed a tub containing the poultice he’d got her on the kitchen counter, next to the instructions he’d written for how often to apply it, before making a beeline for the door.
This time he didn’t hesitate as he left.