When I returned, I lay my palm on the animal’s side, and his eyes opened. The humming in my chest was a resonance, a claim. This creature… it was mine. Strong, beautiful, and soulful, somehow, too. If Neirin truly believed the animal to be a monster, I would spend the rest of my days disproving him.
I set my mind to my task, heart clenched. In the light of the hearth, I addressed the wound. Or tried to. Though the pooling blood originated from the animal’s torso, I couldn’t examine it beneath the thick pelt, matted, slick, and sticky against my fingers.
Choking back my fear, I sat back. My hands shook. I blinked away tears and cupped the animal’s face in my palms, stroking the stunning silver fur on his cheeks.
“I need you to give him back to me,” I pleaded with the fox, even as I knew asking something of the animal may very well be futile. What else could I do? “I needhim.” The words came on a rasp.
The animal closed his eyes, and I lowered my forehead to his, squinting against my sobs. Heat pooled through my veins, and I held my breath. The blood-streaked fur in my palms shortened until only stubble remained. In my grasp, the structure of the animal’s face reformed, bone shifting beneath taut skin. My lungs ached to release, but breathing was impossible. Not until I sensed the shift was complete and I opened my eyes to find Neirin looking back at me through hooded lashes did I let out a gust of air.
“Evera.” My name on his tongue was full of emotion, and I trembled through my silent sobs.
“I’m here,” I reassured him and kissed his brow. His messy hair stuck to his forehead, and sweat beaded on his skin, leaving it damp and chilled.
“I need—” His words were weak, broken. “My head is faint.”
Drawing back enough to address him, my lips quivered. His skin was too pale. He was lying on his side, propped up on one shoulder with his head tilted to me, held in my grasp.I coaxed him down until he rested his head on the floor, then I retrieved a pillow from the bed to make him more comfortable. The gash of his wound was seeping blood faster in this form. It puddled on the wooden boards.
I reached for the medical bag, but Neirin’s hand stopped me.
“Evera.” His tone was heavy with sorrow. “Just lie with me. Please.”
The knot in my throat thickened. I shook my head. “No, I’m going to stitch your wound. You’ll be okay.”
His thumb trailed the wraps at my wrist, and sickening hatred and remorse boiled within me. I drew from his grasp and ripped the wrappings off, revealing the marks beneath. Tears rolled down my cheeks freely then, and when I met Neirin’s eyes, they held such a heavy sadness.
“No healer could fix this, love.”
I knew what this was. This was him telling me not to feel guilty for his death. That it was out of my hands.
“No.” The word broke. He reached for me, but I brushed him off, returning my attention to the sack and forcing concentration despite the turmoil that clenched down on my heart.
Neirin didn’t fight me as I examined the wound. My hands shook as I traced along the gash. The skin gaped, and when his breath shuddered, blood gushed.Withdrawing a sanitized needle from my bag, I snapped a thread between my teeth and attempted to poke the frayed end through the eyelet. The broken edge trembled in my grasp, and tears slid down my jaw, wetting my neck.
“Evera.” Neirin’s coaxing was weak, his voice tired.
Sucking in a breath, I stilled my sobs and focused all my attention on the thread. I wet the end between my lips and tried again, and when the string threaded, I released the air from my lungs with a shudder.
The amount of blood made it nearly impossible to discern where to begin, so I pulled a quilt from the bed to dab at the wound. Neirin flinched at the touch, and the blood pooled faster.My heart raced.
“Love, please,” he gritted out.
Love.I scrunched my nose. I wouldn’t let him die. I wouldn’t.
Starting at his side above his hip, where the skin parted, I began stitching as Leighis had taught me, as I’d seen him and Aureus do many times.Once the trembling of my hands steadied, I became more confident. Neirin never flinched, his gaze watchful as I worked. Seven stitches in, the wound was wider. I sucked in my lips.
As I tried to pull the skin together, something slipped. With the gush of blood, a slick, swollen knot protruded from his wound, and I dropped the needle, shaking uncontrollably.Leighis had spoken of men in the capital whocut open the bodies of the dead to learn how they worked, who could discern the organs, knew their names, their functions, and where they belonged. Whether something was too swollen, off-colored, or otherwise wrong. Buteverythingabout this was wrong, and I was no surgeon.
When Neirin offered no remark, I turned my eyes to his face, but he was unconscious. His head lay on the pillow, eyes closed.
“No,” I rasped. “No, no, no.”
Choking back my tears, I set my jaw and retook the needle. The slickness of the mass slipped between my fingers, but I would not let him die. He could.Not. Die.
Fighting the nausea and panic roiling in my gut, I forced the wound shut, pushing back in what shouldn’t be out. Everything I was doing was wrong. I was wrong. I couldn’t save him.
Blinking through vision blurred by tears, I made the final stitch and secured it as I’d practiced time and again on scraps of cloth. The sharp scent of Neirin’s blood filled my nose. It became a tangible taste in the back of my throat as I drew my dagger and cut the thread from the needle. I re-sheathed it, choking on a sob as a fresh wave of emotion coursed over me. Neirin’s gentle reprimands had taught me better how to treat my blade. How had that only been hours ago?
I sat back and took in the rough stitching, the messiness of my work. I should have just lain with him as he’d asked. If he never woke again … I sucked in a sharp breath, though that did little to quell my panic. Had I caused his last moments to be miserable when he’d needed comfort most?
