The ground underfoot was harsh and unforgiving. She had been forced to give up on the heels she had left in such a hurry with, after her ankles became uncomfortably swollen. A glance downwards was all that had been required to see some of the damage. Her toes were cracked and blood was oozing between them, the top of her foot caked in dirt and maker only knew what else. That was just the places she could see, the others she could feel each time a foot connected with the ground underneath. The bottom of both feet felt as if they had been rubbed raw, each step brought with it a new painful sensation on top of the dull throbbing ache that was constant. Every small stone or uneven patch of ground made itself known in the worst way possible, what had started out as steady steps in the first days were now hobbled, uneven steps that made her head feel as if it was spinning.
A gasp escaped her lips as an already sore bare foot came down onto a sharp jagged stick, stabbing directly into flesh where skin had long since vanished. Traveling along the road, although more than likely less harsh than the forest ground, was a risk she hadn't been willing to take. Too many travelers traversed the roads, she needed to remain unseen. Out of sight for fear that word might make it back to those she was trying to remain out of reach from. When she attempted to inhale deeply, her all too dry throat burned and protested as the air passed through. Even taking deep breaths no longer offered the relief from the pain they had in the beginning.
Low lying shrubs scratched and bit at Melina's legs, digging into the skin in the places her leather pants no longer offered protection as she stumbled her way over to the nearest tree. The trunk twisted and curled into awkward positions making it hard against her back as she leaned on it for support. Supplies were running low, the last town was at least three days back and even if there was another, she had no remaining coin to speak of. All she had left was one slice of bread and a quarter filled canteen of water that she knew had to last as long as possible. It was hard not to miss the comforts of the Amell estate, even if it was no longer as large as it had once been. Food, a warm bed, a roof and even shoes, luxuries so easily taken for granted that she now longed for.
It was even harder knowing she could never go back. A life that would now remain forever out of her reach.
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Once the camp had been set up, there was still just enough daylight time left to enjoy a stroll. After sitting on horseback for the majority of the day, the opportunity to stretch his legs was a welcomed one. The days spent at the palace had been grueling, as they always were. Filled with politics that he didn't much care for. He had never seen eye to eye with King Cailan on important matters and was beginning to think he never would. His brother always seemed to so easily push aside people that Alistair felt deserved more attention, more assistance, more help. All King Cailan seemed to care about were the deals that would increase his own power and standing, with little to no regard of the people underneath who went ignored. Helping common people didn't earn a King a place in the historical records, Cailan wanted the glory so much that it blinded him.
Even so, sometimes he still wondered if the trade off had been worth it. He joined the Templar Order to get away from the palace and all that came with it. Sometimes it felt as if he had taken on a lesser evil in order to escape what he perceived as a greater one. In a way Alistair was grateful to be on his way back to his templar duties. If only to distance himself of the title of Prince and all of the expectations that came with it, the support he was expected to show King Cailan even if he didn't feel it. In another way, he dreaded returning to that tower and what came with his templar duties. He was expected to remain distanced from the mages under his charge, a task that wasn't always so easy. He was certain some of his fellow templars didn't even view mages as people, that thought alone was enough to leave a bad taste in his mouth and an ill feeling in the pit of his stomach. How they could see a person, books sprawled out on the ground after a stumble and not stop to render assistance was beyond him.
"Your Majesty, if you are intending a walk one of us should accompany you. The woods can be a dangerous place," Braxton said as he quickly moved to Alistair's side.
"I'm fully armoured, armed and I am not going far. I can take care of myself," he responded as he tried to brush the guard off.
"But your majesty-" Braxton tried again.
"Not this time. Do not make me regret giving into my Uncle's request to bring guards with me on this trip," Alistair grumbled in frustration. He already regretted giving in. Five minutes of peace all to himself, such a simple pleasure that most took for granted and something he was rarely afforded. At least not outside of his own bedroom and in the tower, even that was shared with other templars.
"As you wish," the guard finally relented reluctantly as he stopped walking and remained standing by the recently erected tent.
They had been careful to position the camp far enough away from the main road that the nightly campfire wouldn't be visible by any late travelers, it was a way of avoiding unwanted attention. The woodlands were thick with trees and he breathed in a sigh of relief at the moment's reprieve as the camp site disappeared behind him. If he were completely honest with himself, he was in no more of a rush to return to Kinloch Hold then he had been to attend the palaces annual ball. If he wasn't dealing with expectations on how to conduct himself as Prince Alistair, then he was dealing with rules on how to conduct himself around the circles mages.
Neither position ever really felt right. It was more like he was standing off to the side observing someone else's life or, as if he was wearing shoes that had never quite fit. Deep in thought he wasn't certain how long he had been walking for when something caught his notice. There on the trunk of a tree in front of him was what appeared to be fresh blood. With practice eyes he glanced at the ground to see sets of tracks that were easily visible. Coming from one direction he could see bare footprints in the dirt and from another, three very distinctively different sets of boot prints. The boot prints were all over and appear to have gone back the way they had come but the bare footprints just stopped at the tree and never left it. They were small prints, much smaller than the foot of most men. That lead him to believe the blood belonged to a female or someone much younger. Most certainly someone who was in trouble.
Templar training taught many things including the art of tracking. It was required when finding apostates or mages who have escaped the circles walls. As he looked closer at the tracks, they too told a story all of their own. One of the original set of footprints was heavier as it tracked back the way it had come. The person they belonged to was carrying something, most likely the girl or child with the bare feet. He knew it would probably be in his best interest to return to the camp and come back with assistance, but as he looked upwards at the sky, he also knew the daylight hours were fast fading. There was a chance someone needed help, fast, he couldn't just turn away from that.
As he followed the tracks through the forest, an echo of words spoken to him many times by his uncle swam through his mind. One day his sense of righteousness would be his undoing. Perhaps that would be the day but, he thought it better he go that way then pretend to be someone he was not. He pressed forward, eyes following the tracks on the ground, ignoring the prickling sensation from the hairs on the back of his neck.
The scent of smoke and freshly cooking meat reached his nose long before he heard the sounds of voices from the camp up ahead or even saw the glow from a fire. Remaining down low, hiding behind shrubs and tree's he approached carefully. Unseen and unheard it only took a moment to assess the camps status. Three men sat around the fire, bound and gagged closer to it was a prisoner. The fire crackled and popped, spraying embers that landed on the dirt far too close to the prisoner for comfort. He could tell the person was petite with long hair and bare feet, however from a distance he could make out little else.
"How long will she be out for?" he heard one of the men ask.
"Till mornin' at least," another, the one who was the furthest away replied.
"Awake just in time for the slave markets? The buyers are gonna want to see the fire in 'er eyes, should fetch us some decent coin," the last of the bandits added.
"She will be awake in time, you will see. Goin' ta have ta watch 'er for the night, 'case she wakes early. Don't want 'er making a run for it," the first one said.
"The three of us will take shifts. Just don't go getting any ideas. She won't pull in as much coin if one of you two violate 'er before we can sell 'er. They'll check ya know and I reckon at 'er age she's probably still a virgin."
Alistair's hands clenched as one reached for his sword, the longer he listened to the way they spoke about the girl, the tighter his grip around the sword's hilt became. She was a commodity to them, the way someone spoke about a piece of furniture they planned on selling. The very thought make his stomach churn and, it took all of his effort not to spring right into the camp between the three of them with his weapon drawn. He forced a deep shaking breath, knowing he wouldn't be able to help her by doing something irrational and getting himself killed.
Each of the men had a weapon that was easily within their reaching distance as they sat talking and drinking. He could see one bow and two swords. Three against one weren't the best odds but, he had faced worse. He reached down and picked up the reasonably large stone that his foot had brushed against a moment prior. Facing the camp he aimed, swung his arm and tossed it. Moving quickly he positioned himself behind the closest tree, sword unsheathed in his hand ready. The stone landed directly between two of the men and had the effect that Alistair had been hoping for.
Two of the bandits began to move in his direction, whilst the other one remained by the camp to keep an eye on the girl. It was better odds, two on one rather than storming the camp and taking all three at once. He held his breath as he listened to the footsteps closing in on his position. He could hear that the two approaching him were a slight distance apart from each other by the sounds the crunching of dried leaves made under their feet. As one reached the other side of the tree he was hiding behind he quickly sprang to action. He jumped out and with one strong, sharp swing his sword sliced straight through the leather armor the man was wearing. Taking him completely by surprise the man slumped instantly to the ground groaning and gasping.
The second bandit only took a moment to realise what had happened and lept into action with a swing at Alistair. The swing went high and slightly wide and only just narrowly missed his head as he ducked underneath the sharp blade. He recovered quickly and moved in on the bandit with a flurry of attacks. Metal clinked on metal as each swing of his sword was successfully blocked. He watched the other man closely, every movement, every step and remained on the offensive wearing him down one swing at a time. Finally he saw his opening and took a low swing, his sword connected with the bandits legs. They were knocked right out from under him as the blade sliced through the poorly tailored leather armor.
Both men were still alive, Alistair knew that much. His only hope was that they had been injured enough not to rejoin the fight as he quickly moved in on the camp and the last enemy standing. With the light provided by the campfire he could see the man's eyes wide with fear, even in the diminishing daylight. He was much younger than the other two had been, perhaps even the son of one. Instead of moving towards him as Alistair had expected, the last bandit was backing away.
"Please, don't hurt me." He stumbled over a rock in his attempt to retreat and raised an arm above his head. As if he thought it would offer some protection from the assault he expected would reign down on him.
"Allow me to take the girl and you will not be harmed," Alistair stated firmly.
"Go on and take 'er. More trouble than she's worth," the bandit agreed quickly.
Alistair moved over to the girls side and risked a quick glance downwards. She was a small thing, perhaps even smaller then she should be. It didn't look as if she had been afforded a decent meal in a while. Her hair framed her face and although it was mostly caked with dirt, blood and stained green from foliage he could see the lighter, blonde strands that had somehow managed to remain clean. He raised his eyes back to the bandit, not game enough to risk looking away for too long and kept them on him, with one hand on his sword as he lifted the girl over his shoulder. His hand connected with a damp patch on her clothing as he lifted her, it felt sticky and thick like blood.
"You need coin so badly that you would harm an innocent girl?" Alistair said as he kept his attention on the other man.
"Would have been easy coin, if not for you," the young man admitted.
"There's a town a few hours back, heading towards Denerim. They are in need of strong hands to work the fields. They are offering a roof, food and pay for anyone willing to take on the work. It's good honest work with steady pay. Once you patch your friends up, remember you were spared and consider a different path." He didn't really believe his words would be listened to but it was at least worth a try. The town needed a lot of help, three extra pairs of capable strong hands would go a long way. So long as they didn't rob them blind the moment they had the chance.
The bandit said nothing as Alistair stepped back and continued walking backwards until he was more secure with the distance between them. Only then did he turn, with the girl slung over his shoulder, to make his way back to their own camp.
It was dark by the time he reached the camp and he could see his guards standing by the fire conversing. They appeared to be splitting into teams, most likely to go in search of him. "When you are all done trying to mount a search party I could use a hand here," he said as he approached them.
"A quick walk you said," Braxton complained. "Where have you been and…" his voice trailed off for a moment as his eyes came to rest on the girl, "Who is that?"
"I don't know," Alistair admitted. "What I do know is a group of bandits back there were intending to sell her into slavery and she is injured. Help me get her into my tent so we can assess the damage."
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Alistair carefully laid her down on the bedroll in his tent and took a moment to light the lamp. A soft orange hue provided him with enough illumination to see better as he placed the lamp beside her. Braxton remained nearby, standing just outside of the open tent flap, no doubt equally curious about their new guest but remained out of the way so Alistair had room enough to move freely.
Carefully he reached over to brush the tendrils of hair away from her face, the dirt and blood making a few of the locks stick to her cheek as he worked them loose. Underneath it all his eyes followed the smooth contours of her cheeks and the perfect line of her jaw. "Sweet Maker, she can't be any older than I am." He trailed his fingers along her jawline to her chin, moving them around any visible cuts and scratches.
"Think she was traveling alone, all the way out here?" Braxton asked with a doubtful tone.
"I didn't see any other tracks, just hers and the bandits. She is feverish," he added as his fingers brushed over her warm, damp forehead. "Who are you and what were you doing out here alone?" he asked with a tone filled with wonder and disbelief. His eyes traveled downwards in the direction he had felt the patch of blood when he had first lifted her. It was a perfectly rounded hole right through her shoulder. "Arrow shot," he mused out loud. "They must have laced it with a tranquilizer."
He startled when Braxton spoke up again, having been so absorbed in her that he had forgotten the man was still standing there. "Are you sure it wasn't poison?"
"They wanted her alive. I overheard them talking about selling her to the slave market," he couldn't keep the bitter tone from his words as he looked at her perfect young face. Other than a few recent scratches, no doubt from her trek through the forest, her skin was flawless and unmarked. She clearly wasn't a warrior or a fighter of any kind, if she was there would be scars or some signs of battle but she had none of those. With no other signs of a struggle at the location of the blood stain, he doubted she even saw them coming before the arrow hit her in the shoulder. Cowards. Only a coward would prey on the weak and unarmed. He almost regretted not killing them when he had the chance.
"So now that she is here, ummm what are you planning on doing with her?" Braxton asked.
"I need a bowl of cool water, some elfroot salve, one of those healing potions if I can get her to drink any of it and a canteen of fresh water," Alistair instructed without taking his eyes from her.
The top she wore had short sleeves, as he examined her further he could see recent scratches across her lower arms, yet still they were the only thing beyond the dirt that marred her flawless skin. A couple of the scratches were deep, nasty looking things from jagged sticks or other terrain. He knew all too well how unforgiving the deeper parts of the forest were, especially for those not properly protected from the jutting rocks and low lying branches. At the very least well tailored leather armour was required to keep them at bay, something that covered ones bare skin completely and she had neither. Whatever had taken her out there was hastily done, unplanned.
The thin leather pants that covered her legs, the one part of her body that was at least at some point fully covered, had holes and rips. Underneath the fabric was also scratched, far worse then her arms. There was barely an area of visible skin that wasn't damaged by the time his eyes rested on her ankles. Then there was her feet, bare and swollen with the skin literally worn down to nothing but flesh by the harsh terrain. The more he looked the more questions that presented themselves without any answers, teasing the recesses of his mind.
The earliest scratches that had started healing were a week old at the most. He wondered if she even knew where she was going or, if she had somehow been lost and aimlessly wandering. It was clear there would be no answers until she woke to answer the questions for herself. If she chose to answer them at all.
Alistair reached past her and the bedroll to his swag so he could pull out one of his clean shirts. He settled back down beside her and began ripping it into strips. He wasn't going to be able to clean those wounds with just his bare hands and water. For once he was at least thankful for his uncle's persistence that they be prepared for anything or, he wouldn't even have the healing supplies that had been packed into one of the crates and secured to a horse. He remembered protesting at the time that the potions would be enough and the rest was just extra weight. Thankfully his uncle had ignored those protests.
Where is Braxton and those supplies? He sure seemed to be taking his time with them, the camp wasn't that large. Of course there were things he could be doing to be better prepared for when the supplies did get to him but, he was purposely stalling. A flush crept it's way to his cheeks at the mere thought of needing to remove her outer layer of clothing so he could tend to those wounds properly. Especially the arrow shot to her shoulder. Maker what was wrong with him? It shouldn't have mattered that under the layers of dirt she was pretty much perfect, the lines of her face, the shape of her jaw and chin, the curves of the muscles along her arms and that she was also roughly his age. Still she needed help, not some blubbering idiot embarrassed about the mere thought of a bit of bare skin.
Pull it together, you haven't even spoken to the woman yet. He found himself wondering what her voice would sound like. His mind conjured up something soft and sweet to match how he pictured her cleaned up without all the injuries, or even with them. In reality her voice would probably be as dry as her lips looked, cracked from lack of fluids. If her throat was dry enough, perhaps she would barely even be able to speak at all. At that moment however, he was thankful for the tranquilizer that meant she couldn't see his red, flushed cheeks.
All of those thoughts were interrupted as Braxton appeared back at the open tent flap with his hands full. Alistair quickly jumped to his feet and relieved the other man of the bowl filled with clean, cool water and carefully placed it by the bed. Even as careful as he was a small amount of the liquid still sloshed over the side as the bowl was jostled when it touched the ground.
"Just put the rest over here." He motioned to a spot on the ground beside him as he sat himself by the bowl. "Close the flap on your way out, I have to er.. her clothes.. you know... so I can get to the wounds… to clean them." He stammered, positive the colour was raising to his cheeks even more each time he tripped over a word.
"Of course. I am sure she would prefer not to have an audience," Braxton replied with an amused tone.
Alistair was certain that amused tone was mocking his embarrassment. With a sigh he brushed it off as he turned his attention to the girl and what had to be done. "Just don't go too far incase I need something else," he said as he waited for the sound of the tent flap being lowered.
Once he knew for sure the rest of the guards in the camp could no longer see in, he swallowed hard and then carefully unbuttoned the shirt she was wearing. His fingers moved gently, almost as if he was afraid of breaking the girl, or damaging her further. Once the buttons were undone he slowly slid the shirt down her arms, revealing the arrow wound to her shoulder. It was a neat, perfectly rounded hole. At least they hadn't used a jagged arrowhead, they always left more damage in their wake and were far more painful to recover from.
He dipped one of the strips of material into the bowl of water and ever so tenderly wiped the blood away from around the hole. It appeared to have bled a lot at the time the arrow had been removed. If the amount of blood soaked into her shirt was any indication but, the wound was no longer actively bleeding. Alistair knew he needed to be careful to make sure it stayed that way, a wrong move could reopen the wound. He rolled her to one side slowly and then the other as he removed the shirt and tossed it to one side. After she was positioned back on the bedroll he carefully applied a generous amount of the elfroot salve to the arrow wound, filling the hole as he hoped it would be enough. Although the templar training required a small amount of knowledge on tending to wounds in the field, he was no healer and most of that training had been tending to the damage magic could cause.
As he looked back at her face, he noticed some strands of hair had repositioned themselves across it when he rolled her. He reached his hand over to brush them aside again. As his fingers connected with her skin he could feel it burning beneath them, running even hotter than it had been when he first brushed her hair aside. Reacting quickly he pulled his hand back and reached for another strip of material, dropping it into the cool water he retrieved it again and ran it across her face. Droplets of water slid down her cheeks and over her forehead collecting the dirt and blood, revealing her soft pale skin underneath. He dipped the cloth in the water, squeezed some of the excess out and proceeded to wipe over her face gently. Little by little as the grime came away and her face revealed itself under his administrations, he could see just how perfectly sweet she really did look under all of the dirt that had soiled her. He could also see how deathly pale and vulnerable she appeared to be.
His stomach clenched tightly at the thought that maybe, he might be too late to help her.
Each time the cloth in his hand became blackened and dirt ridden, he tossed it aside to grab another. With careful, tentative hands every cut and scratch on her face was cleaned and then covered with salve to help them begin healing. In between working on her wounds he dipped a cloth in the water, trickling the liquid across her forehead and over the top of her head in an attempt to keep the fever down. After placing another damp cloth against her forehead and leaving it there, he moved to hook his thumbs under the waistband of her leather pants. He felt the heat rising up his neck and creeping across his cheeks and was forced to remind himself that there was no choice. She needed to be cleaned up, the wounds needed to be tended to and the only way to do that was to strip her down to her small clothes so that nothing was missed.
It felt wrong to be removing the clothing of a girl who had never even met him. For her to be so exposed and vulnerable to a complete stranger, even if his intentions were in the right place. He swallowed hard and pushed aside his embarrassment the best that he was able to. With careful movements he lowered her pants downwards. He cringed when there were places that the material was stuck to the blood and wounds on her legs, grateful that she had been tranquilized even if the situation that caused it wasn't ideal. The pain would have been immeasurable as he pulled the material away, some of the cuts on her legs so badly stuck to the material that they opened and started bleeding. Sweet maker. He desperately hoped that she couldn't feel the pain.
He finally got them down over her feet and tossed them over on top of the shirt she had been wearing. He cleaned every cut and scratch on her arms and legs with no real idea of just how many hours had passed as he worked. By the end he had ripped up another two of his own shirts and used some of the strips to bandage her feet after cleaning them and applying the slave. His hands and knees ached, his eyes hurt from hours of close scrutiny, making sure all of the dirt had been cleaned out from each wound.
It was her feet that had been the worst, he was certain the cause of her fever was an infection in some of the wounds on the soles. He was no healer but the swelling and redness around her feet was a good indication that those wounds were more than likely her biggest problem. He replaced the damp cloth on her forehead and then set about laying out some blankets on the tent floor, in the form of a makeshift bed for himself. It was doubtful he would be able to get in much sleep but thought that it was at least worth an attempt.
With the blankets in place, he reached a hand over to check her forehead once more. The damp cloth was warm to touch from the heat that was radiating from her. Alistair dipped it back into the cool water before squeezing out droplets across the top of her head and then placing it back against her hot skin. With another clean cloth in his hand he tipped some water from the canteen on to it and squeezed drops out carefully across her dry lips. It was an attempt to at least get a small amount of fluids into her. He repeated the action with some of the liquid from the healing potion hoping that she swallowed at least some of it and that it would help. Afterwards he settled down on to the blankets in an attempt to try for at least some sleep.
Throughout the night, between dozing but never really sleeping, he continued to try getting some of the potion and some water across her dry lips and into her mouth. The cloth against her forehead was replaced regularly and her hair kept damp in the hopes of breaking the raging fever. She became restless more than once but even when her eyes opened they were unfocused and unseeing and each time they closed again shortly afterwards. It was difficult to tell if the result was due to the fever she had or the tranquilizer that had been used on her. What Alistair did know was that he couldn't remember a night that had felt as if it dragged on as long as that one had. Time spent hoping, more than he had ever wished for anything, that at least some of what he was doing would help her to recover.