Sleep eluded me because I could not rid myself of those images. The pain in his face, eyes screwed shut and fists clutching at the earth. The fear that had emanated from him as I had taken one last glance and fled into the forest.
I felt fear, too. Of myself, of my circumstances. I no longer knew who the enemy was.
Light streamed into the room, stronger now, and Harkin had not yet risen. I glanced at him, annoyed at the ounce of concern which settled in my belly as I noted the blood stain on his tunic and the sallow tinge to his skin.
Though my blade had been small, its edge was razor sharp, and I had been out for his blood. I knew I had struck true, the dagger stabbing precisely through the gap in his ribs.
He hadn’t dressed the wound, and I knew he had been under considerable strain in the hours after. I remembered the way he had moved, stiff and sluggish at the end.
Blood loss and fatigue were certainly the only explanations as to his twilight words.
Don’t go, Ren. Please.
The settee let out a soft sound as I moved to stand.
Harkin stirred, reaching for me once more. He blinked to full awareness and let his hand fall to his lap, pushing into a sitting position with a grimace. “You stayed.”
“I did,” I whispered, not trusting my voice.
Harkin only watched me with careful consideration.
I gazed upon him a moment longer then turned away. I gathered long strips of clean fabric, frothed soap and water in a small bowl. The weight of his gaze was heavy upon me as I sank to the floor at his side.
Harkin watched me with open curiosity, his surprise as visceral as my own.
“Take off your shirt,” I demanded, averting my eyes as I dunked the first strip of cloth in the water.
His brow raised as he regarded me. “Excuse me?”
An exasperated sigh huffed out of me. “Do not jest. I cannot very well dress your wound through your bloodied tunic, can I?”
“If you wanted my clothes off—” I jabbed him in the ribs, just below his wound. Harkin wheezed but was smart enough not tocomplete the thought. “You might be the worst healer that has ever tended to me.”
“I will not ask again. Do as I say, or you may dress your own wounds.”
Harkin complied, the shadow of a grin on his lips as he gingerly removed the stiff tunic. “Yes, Healer.”
I rolled my eyes then softened as I gazed upon the injury I had dealt.
The wound was angry and reddened. Though the bleeding had mostly stanched, forming a rough scab, it still leaked at the edges. Left untreated, it would surely fester and become infected.
“You could have killed me last night,” I said. My words held the weight of a question—one I didn’t have the courage to ask outright.
“No, I couldn’t have.” Sincerity laced his expression, the first time I had ever seen it in him. The first time I had ever believed it.
“Right,” I agreed hesitantly. “You have a job to do, delivering me to Acsilla.”
“Even if that were not so… I have no desire to hurt you, Ren. I never have.” He spoke softly as if I were a wild animal, easy to be spooked.
“Why?” I asked, my voice smaller than I had ever heard it.
“What do I have to gain? What good does your pain bring me?” Harkin said the words as if they were a foregone conclusion—an inevitable, simple truth.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
His eyes softened, just so, and I could not bear to look at him a second longer.
I drew the cloth from the water, dabbing it gently across his skin. The white fabric morphed into one of reds and pinks, blood soaking into it with every stroke of my hand.
