No longer able to avoid it, I palmed a dagger and slid it down the front of his shirt then tossed aside. Gingerly, I peeled back the fabric, giving me a first-hand look at the damage up close.
Instantly my stomach betrayed me and I was forced to scramble away from him as I emptied my stomach’s contents to the side.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, steeled myself and returned to his side. I focused on the task at hand and folded the remnants of my skirt as many times as I could while allowing me to cover the wound. Once done, I gritted my teeth, shifted my weight from my knees to my palms and slowly applied pressure.
As if I gutted him myself, agony caught in Tarrin’s throat for the briefest moment before his eyes rolled back and his body went limp.
“I’m so sorry,” I sobbed, shifting more of my weight against the wound.
Despite using every last piece of my skirt, it took little time before the layers were soaked through, blood squishing between myfingers as I closed my eyes and bargained with whatever god would listen for this to work.
Long minutes passed, but eventually the bandages began to work. Afraid to move my hands, I sat there and listened to Tarrin’s heartbeat strengthen, if only by a fraction.
Eventually my arms shook, forcing me to ease the pressure, and as I lifted them I almost wept as the outermost layer stopped taking on new blood. Wanting to maintain pressure, I unwrapped my own wound, using the extra fabric to wrap around his torso.
Leaning back on my heels, I took Tarrin in. Not his wounds. Him. I hated what I saw. His thick, muscular frame having the opposite effect. Unable to contain my emotions, I buried my face in my hands and cried while reminding myself, he was still alive.
Knowing I still had work to do, I dragged my fingers through my hair and held on tight, collecting myself for what came next.
It was well past high noon, and sweat had long since coated my skin. The most concerning part was that Tarrin was dry as a bone.
Standing—and not entirely sure my plan would work—I took a deep breath, and pressed through to autumn. Straddling the border, I pulled Tarrin through head-first, just enough so his bandages stayed dry. Then, I bit the inside of my cheek as I pushed through the hardest part of this idiotic plan and straddled his sides. Curling myself over him, I placed my hands on either side of his head to protect him from the rain. This way the summer heat compensated for the drizzled chill from autumn and vice versa.
What I hadn’t accounted for was the border kicking against the intrusion, forcing me to my elbows.
It didn’t take long before I trembled from the effort, afraid the magic might crush us both.
Please help me, I begged of the spark.
The power refused to help, at least at first. Then, when I was about to collapse from exhaustion, a soft surge filled my veins and pulsed out from me, easing the burden off me.
Moments, or perhaps hours later, someone came.
“She’s over here.” Artton’s voice rang out, and I almost collapsed with relief.
“Get her out of there,” Caius barked.
Firm, gentle arms cradled me before pulling me from Tarrin.
“No!” I screamed. Or at least tried to. I was a rag doll against Artton’s chest as the sun caressed my chilled skin.
“I’ve got him,” a third voice said, one I couldn’t place.
“Fuck, did she rip a hole in the border and hold it?” Artton’s disbelief rumbled through his chest and into mine.
“Is she hurt?” Caius asked, ignoring the question.
Artton’s warm breath danced across my face as he said, “She’s freezing, and judging by the five-inch cut along her forearm that isn’t healing, she’s probably tapped from that little stunt.”
“Can’t believe she cut herself like that, for him,” the third voice—Sidrick—said. “Here.”
Seconds later I was clad in an oversized shirt that went well below my knees.
“Is any of that blood hers?” Caius asked.
“Other than her arm, I don’t think so,” Artton supplied. “Looks like she didn’t realize her hands were stained with his blood when she rubbed her face. There’s dried blood all over where the rain hadn’t washed it off yet.”
Finding an ounce of strength, I fisted Artton’s shirt. “Help him. Please, Artton,” I croaked.
