#5 Truth or Prejudice?

Avalea

I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but when I come to, I’m once again staring into the Werewolf’s silver-gray eyes. They’re not glowing this time, thanks to the bright sunlight flooding the hut. I try to sit up, but wince as pain shoots up my leg. I’m still feeling light-headed.

The Werewolf is looking at the blood-soaked remains of my nightgown and the pool of blood on the floor with horror. 

“What the hell!” he exclaims.

“My thigh…” 

He reaches for the hem of my nightgown with hesitant fingers. 

“Go ahead,” I whisper.

He tries to push the fabric up my leg, but it’s stuck to the open wound along with the bit of the fabric from my sleeve I had used to staunch the flow of blood.

“I’ll have to cut it away.”

I nod, too tired to speak. My eyelids feel heavy, and I feel myself slipping back into unconsciousness. 

“No!” His sharp cry serves to open my eyes. “Don’t close your eyes. Here, look at me.”

The authority in his voice forces me to follow his command. Somewhere in the back of my pain-addled mind, I register the fact that he has returned alone, and is trying to save my life. 

“Don’t close your eyes,” he repeats as he looks around the room, then on a muttered oath, moves away from me. “I need to find something to cut the fabric.”

Will he leave the hut again to find the necessary implement? I don’t want him to leave. His presence next to me makes me feel safe. 

He runs a hand through his thick, unkempt dark hair, and swears, finding nothing.

“I’m going to use my fingernail. Don’t be scared. I won’t harm you.”

I’m surprised to find that I trust him.

“Don’t close your eyes, but maybe don’t look at my hand either. I know your kind are squeamish of us in our wolf form.

I nod and bite my lip. I try not to look, but am unable to tear my eyes away from his hand as his index finger becomes stout, rounded and furry. A sharp claw pops out. I would have screamed if I had the energy. His nail is sharp as an arrow and gleams in the sunlight. Using it, he cuts away a portion of my gown, leaving the fabric stuck to the wound untouched.

“I’ll have to get something to clean it. It needs to be closed.”

He rises to his feet, his brow furrowed as if he’s trying to work out a complicated problem.

“Don’t move. I’ll be back. And don’t close your eyes. Keep your mind occupied. Recite multiplication tables if you have to.”

Don’t go, I say in my mind as I watch his retreating back, feeling bereft of his company. It is tempting to shut my eyes. It would be so easy to give in. What difference does it make if I live or die? Ann might finally be the queen. She’s more qualified than I am. She deserves it. But what if she hasn’t escaped? What if they have found her?

My eyes snap open at that thought. I can’t let anything happen to her. I have to find her. Taking the Werewolf’s advice, I try to keep my mind occupied by strategizing. Uncle Horace lives in Deneb, and Deneb lies south of Vega. I’ll have to head south once I’m strong enough. The ghetto lies south of Vega as well. I’ll have to find a way to cross it undetected. Perhaps I might have to seek the Werewolf’s help after all. What if he refuses to help? Thinking about it is giving me a headache. Multiplication tables it is.

But I’m saved from having to recite the multiplication tables as he returns with an armful of odd objects.

He places an earthen basin and a waterskin on the floor next to me. There are strips of rough hemp cloth, and a sharp paring knife in the basin. Underneath his arm, he’s carrying logs of firewood. I instinctively want to shrink away at the sight of that knife, but quickly realize how silly I’m being. He’s had a hundred chances to harm me, but he has chosen not to. Instead, he is caring for me. I think he noticed my reaction, however.

“I’m growing tired of repeating myself. I won’t harm you.”

His expression is impassive, but there’s a hint of hurt in his voice. I feel about an inch tall. 

“I’m sorry.”

He nods as he lays down the various items.

“I can’t heal cuts and wounds magically, and it’s evident that your thigh wound is beyond your capabilities. We’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. I’m going to rip away the fabric sticking to your wound. Then I’m going to tie a strip of cloth above the bleeding point. I’ll have to use a hot knife to sear the wound. It’s going to hurt like hell.”

I'm sure it's going to, but what choice do I have? "Okay."

He pours water from the waterskin into the basin. 

"Do you think you can heat it magically?"

"Yes."

I might be weak right now, but I wouldn't be a witch if I couldn't perform such a basic spell. When I wave my hand over the basin, steam rises from it. 

"Thank heavens. I hope you can heat the knife as well when the time comes."

It'll be a little more tricky since metal is denser, but I might be able to manage. 

"I'll try."

"Alright."

His jaw is firmly set and there's grim determination in his eyes. In a quick movement, he rips the fabric away from my wound. I scream. 

"It will be okay. It'll stop hurting in a bit."

His voice is calm, and his words are soothing. I derive strength from his assurances. He ties the strip of cloth above the wound with brisk movements before dipping a strip of cloth into the scalding hot water and cleaning the wound as best as he can without making it bleed. 

"Now comes the difficult part," he whispers, holding up the knife.

My hand trembles when I wave it over the knife, channeling my power through my fingers. Within moments, the blade turns red hot. The Werewolf inhales and exhales noisily as he pinches the edges of the open wound together. It hurts, but I know I’ll be experiencing a different level of pain when the hot knife seals my wound. I turn my face away; my hands clenched into fists when he brings the knife closer to my thigh. 

Hot, searing pain rips through me as the heated blade touches the wound. I think I scream, but can’t be certain. The pain has blinded me to everything else. 

Strong arms engulf me in the next second. 

“Hush. It’s okay. The worst is over. Deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth.”

The strength in his muscles is enough to break me like a twig, but I lean into his warmth, feeling safer than I have ever felt in my life. I do as instructed, clinging to him, until eventually the pain begins to subside. 

He props me against the wall and lets go of me to retrieve something from a sack lying in one corner. I had not noticed it before, nor had I noticed the wicker basket. When he lets go of me, it takes all I have not to beg him to take me back in his arms. 

He returns shortly with a vial of a clear liquid. Pouring several drops of it on a strip of cloth, he places it on the wound. A soothing, cooling sensation replaces the throbbing ache. 

The fog surrounding my brain begins to clear, and I realize how parched I am.

“Water,” I croak.

“Ah, I forgot to bring a cup,” he says, running a hand through his hair. I have come to realize it’s something he does quite often. A thick lock of his hair falls on his forehead. I reach for it and almost brush it away before I realize how inappropriate it is, and withdraw my hand abruptly, hoping he hasn’t noticed. The strange expression in his eyes tells me he has noticed. I close my eyes for a moment and pray that he will attribute my actions to the peculiarity of the situation.

He clears his throat. “Right. Cup your hands.”

I do as asked, but my hands are trembling violently. Another curse escapes his lips. The water skin is too large to drink from directly. He tilts it and holds it at an angle, hoping that the water will drip down in a thin stream, but it sloshes over the rim, splashing water all over me. I gasp.

He swears and looks thoroughly put out. I should be worried; I should be scared that he’s not in the best of moods, and who knows how the beast within him will react when he’s angry? But I feel an insane urge to giggle. Perhaps I have finally lost my mind after my travails. I can’t help thinking he looks quite adorable right now, with his bottom lip sticking out. And he’s handsome, in a dark, dangerous sort of way. 

Yes, I have surely lost my mind to entertain such thoughts at such a time.

He catches me staring at him, and I quickly look away.

“We’ll have to make do for now. Open your mouth.”

He pours some water from the skin into his cupped palm and brings it to my mouth. I hesitate. It’s oddly intimate, him giving me a drink of water in this manner. He brings his hand closer to my mouth. I bend my head forward and touch my lips to the tips of his rough, callused fingers. Every other thought goes out of my head when the cool liquid runs down my throat. I greedily drink up the rest of the water. By the time my thirst is finally quenched, he’s had to refill his palm three times. 

I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and look up at him with a smile. His eyes have gone strangely dark, and there’s an intensity in his gaze that makes my heart beat just a little faster.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. There are fresh clothes in the sack, food in the basket. Eat and get some rest. I’ll return later in the day.”

He helpfully places the basket and the sack within my reach, avoiding the puddle of dried blood on the floor.

“I’ll clean it when I come back.”

Before I can say anything, he strides out of the hut, shutting the rickety wooden door behind him. 

Once he leaves, I inch across the floor towards the pallet where his jacket is. I wrap it around my shoulders and close my eyes. It has his scent, and that oddly comforts me. I can make myself believe I am cocooned in the safety of his arms. 

Tumultuous thoughts swirl in my head. 

Have we misjudged the Cursed Ones?