Chapter 10 : Healers and Healing

The inn for the village was right on the edge of town. I convinced Fynn to put the cloak on to cover his shoulder when he went inside. Arriving injured would more than likely set off alarm bells, and thankfully, Fynn agreed.

He got us a room, requesting a room with two cots.

"We've only got one room, and it has one large bed," the innkeeper replied gruffly, white mustache blowing with his words.

"We'll take it." Fynn sighed. "I also need lodging for one horse."

I looked around the first floor of the inn as Fynn made deals and got directions to a stall for Alastor. He handed some money to the innkeeper and continued whatever discussion they were having.

It looked like a scene from one of those corny medieval theme parks, or low-budget streaming series. Wood beams and plaster walls, an enormous fireplace on the other end of the building, and a scattering of tables and chairs cluttered the floors. There was a bartender using a rag to wipe down a walnut bar, and two gray-bearded men drinking out of mugs.

"Wait here. Don't go anywhere," Fynn ordered, turning toward the door. "Actually, get us some dinner." He dropped a few coins into the palm of my hand and went out into the night to put Alastor in the stable.

I went to the bar to ask about a little supper.

"Excuse me," I said politely to the bartender.

"What do you want, girl?" he growled. Firelight reflected off the sweat on his bald head, and I wondered if he was just warm from working near the fire, or if he might have a fever of some sort. It was cold here to me.

"Would it be possible to get some supper for two people?" I asked.

"I can have the cook send something up to your room," he grunted.

"Great. Just whatever you have will be fine."

"We only have stew." The bartender turned away from me. I studied the bottles on the shelf behind him, hoping to find some sort of clear liquor.

Spotting a beautifully labeled bottle, I cleared my throat. "Could I get a glass of that?" I asked, pointing to the bottle.

"That's expensive shit," the bartender grumbled.

I laid the coins on the counter. "Will this cover it?"

The bartender's eyes widened. "Don't flash your money here, you fool," he advised, swiping two coins off the counter and shoving the other two back to me. "This will do it."

"Thank you," I told him, giving him a half smile and hoping that would address the issue. I stuffed the coins down into my boots.

"Here," the bartender grunted, pushing a glass full of the clear liquid toward me. "Don't drink that down here. I don't want something to happen to you if you can't handle your liquor."

I chuckled and nodded, holding the glass close and turning to look toward the door, waiting for Fynn to return.

It didn't take long for him to reappear, looking more bedraggled than he had before. It would appear that it had started raining again.

He jerked his chin toward the stairway in the corner, and I followed after him, climbing behind him while trying not to spill the liquor. It smelled impossibly stout, which made me hopeful that it would keep the wound sterile.

"I can make a pallet on the floor. You don't have to share a bed with me," he offered as he pushed the door to our room open.

"Don't be stupid. We both deserve to sleep in a real bed for once. Just don't get any ideas," I chuckled. I was feeling surprisingly giddy, which I attributed to surviving the bandit attack.

Fynn didn't say anything, just carried our packs inside, set them down, and closed the door. He locked it with a large, metal key.

"They're supposed to bring us some dinner. If they don't, I'll go back down there and fight the bartender," I told him, only half joking. My stomach growled.

"I was wondering if you'd been able to figure something out for dinner. I didn't realize you were a big drinker," Fynn said, arranging the pillows from the bed so that they divided the bed in half.

"I'm not. I'm going to clean your shoulder." I set the glass on the bedside table and gestured for Fynn to sit.

"Like hell you are," Fynn snapped. He laid the cloak across a bench under the window so it would be near the fresh air, hopefully ensuring it dried without stinking.

"Like hell, you're getting away with not doing something about it. If you die of an infection, I'm screwed," I pressed. "Sit on the bed."

Fynn's shoulders sagged. I had a feeling that I was only holding the upper hand now because of how tired he was, but I wasn't going to argue. Fynn sat down hard on the edge of the bed, making the floorboards creak.

"Take your shirt off," I ordered.

"No." Fynn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"It's cold, we're both wet, and your shoulder is bleeding more than I'm comfortable with. Take your shirt off and let me fix it, so we can go to bed." I crossed my arms and waited for him to do as I ordered.

Fynn sighed and peeled his damp shirt off, tossing it to the floor. I picked up the shirt and laid it across a chair that was propped in the corner of the room, ensuring it would dry. I returned to Fynn's side, inspecting the wound.

"Is it deep?" he asked.

"No. But I think it's going to take a while to heal." I looked at the separated flesh, the angry red cut still leaking droplets of blood.

"I'm afraid I won't be awake much longer. I used too much of my power," Fynn confessed. I knew he had to be exhausted because he never would have admitted to that otherwise.

"Then, let's get this done," I said.

There were no rags, so I had to tear the hem of my nightgown to create a rag to clean his wounds and wrapping to keep it covered. I used the alcohol from the glass to clean the slash, and Fynn hissed through gritted teeth as I pressed the rag dipped in the clear alcohol over the wound.

Fynn wasn't lying about struggling to stay awake. As soon as I got his shoulder wrapped, he collapsed against the bed. His eyes closed and he started snoring softly.

He slept for three days.

I tried to keep his bandages clean, and the wound itself clean. The entire time he slept, it poured rain. Sometimes it was a light rain, and sometimes it was a fierce thunderstorm, but I didn't see the sun for three days. I was beginning to worry there was some sort of infection preventing him from waking back up, but he didn't seem feverish and the wound was beginning to heal.

I used the money from my boots to buy food and keep broth in the room. When Fynn would stir, I’d offer him spoonfuls, which he sipped at sleepily. His eyes never fully opened, and it had me contemplating what to do if he never woke up.

It would be the ideal time to escape now when I could rob him blind and leave without a fight, but I knew that I couldn't stand to leave him in this condition. So, each morning, I would get up, take care of Fynn, go tend to Alastor, and then pay for another night with some money from Fynn's coin purse.

On the fourth morning, I awoke to Fynn sitting on the edge of the bed.

"You're awake," I said groggily.

"The sun came out," he said flatly. I almost wasn't sure if he was responding to me at all, or if it was just a general observation.

"Thank goodness. I'm tired of rain," I admitted.

A sunbeam fell across Fynn's chest, and I truly noticed him for the first time. These last few days, I hadn't paid any attention to anything other than his wound. But now that he was awake and sitting up, I realized how truly toned he was.

The muscles I had felt a few days ago were easily visible, a twisting vine tattoo climbing his right arm. His chest was broad, and his skin was gold from the sun. He reminded me of a cat the way he chased that sunbeam around the room, and the sight of his skin gleaming in the light was more appealing than I wanted to admit.

"You should have left me," he said quietly, sounding strangely sad.

"And go where?" I chuckled, trying to erase his dark mood. I had considered leaving, but I didn't know where to go or what to do. How would I make money when the stolen coin ran out? Where would I take shelter? What would I do with my life? I wasn't in a hurry to figure out how to return to the lonely Appalachian cabin, but I wasn't sure how to assimilate here.

"Anywhere. You would have more than enough money in that coin purse to live comfortably for a long time," he answered as if he could read my thoughts.

"What would you have done? Died and rotted in this room?" I retorted.

"Someone would have found me." He shrugged.

"Well, that's not really how I roll. And you saved me. I should be thanking you," I dismissed. I stood and crossed the room to the chair.

Fynn flopped back onto the bed, the sunbeam fully enveloping him. Seeing him glowing in the sunlight, finally looking less sunken and sullen, and looking more vibrant and full of life was encouraging. I'd been worried my hard work would be wasted, but he seemed like a new man, other than his dark mood.

"I didn't save you. I put you in that situation in the first place. Everything is my fault," he said miserably.

"No, I don't think that's true. You can't control bandits. They're criminals, Fynn, they commit crimes. You saved me when they tried to take me, and that's what matters to me," I assured him.

He had a heart of gold somewhere in that broad chest of his. I wasn't ready to say something so vulnerable, but I was enchanted by his soft spot. He didn't have to pursue that bandit, stop the horse, and save me, especially while he was dangerously close to death. But he did. That had to say something about who he was.

"Why did you get so weak? A shoulder wound is hardly lethal," I blurted.

I shouldn't ask, but I'd been wondering the entire time he was under. I wanted to know why the laws of medicine, biology, physics, and everything else were different here.

"I overexerted myself. Magic has limits, you know," he explained vaguely.

I didn't know. I had no idea what he was talking about, but as he climbed to his feet and crossed the room to loom over me, I wasn't interested in asking follow-up questions.

"I should think of some way to thank you for keeping me alive," he said gruffly.

I stood, now face to face with him. I intended to argue, to tell him that I was only doing what a decent person would do, but there was a dark look in his eye that set my pulse to pounding.

His green eyes bore into my hazel ones, and his jaw was set. His full lips were looking too tempting all of a sudden. I shouldn't want him this way, but the problem was that my body didn't listen to my common sense.

"Any requests?" he asked, no longer sullen and now almost sultry.

"Any suggestions?" I challenged, lifting an eyebrow.

How far could I push him now?