Gaston gasped for breath. Dark spots clouded his vision as he barely made out his surroundings. He tried to push himself up further out of the freezing current and up the sandy bank. His right arm burned, his head throbbed, and his body ached. He slumped back onto the ground feeling tiny grains of sand finding their way into the waterlogged mess of an arm. He tried to string together a lieu of curses but his throat was dry and burned. No sound came out. His damp hair clung to his neck, his clothes were shredded. A sharp chill froze his bones as his teeth chattered together. The dark spots in his vision grew and he could feel himself losing consciousness. He was going to die here, he knew it. Oh, how far he had fallen. Once a man among men, his strength marveled by many, he was now lying pitifully on his deathbed with no one to find him. His closest companions were gone. The damned Beast. His jaw clenched as searing pain went up his right arm. The damned bitch. All of this would've been avoided if she had just agreed to marry him. How could she have chosen such a horrendous …thing? Over him? With a snarl, Gaston pushed himself over onto his back, his thick black hair fanning out around him in a halo, and he clutched his injured arm. He could smell the rotting flesh that surrounded the gaping wound, a long deep cut into the once spectacular appendage. Gaston's breaths were shallow and he felt his eyes beginning to close. That damned woman! He was going to die here, he knew it, but he couldn't just yet. He had unfinished business with that filthy mongrel that stole his woman.
Even in his feverish state, Gaston heard a branch crack and the hunter within took hold. He shot up in the direction of the noise, taking in the silhouette of a person, a woman, a small one… before he groaned in pain and slumped back into the sand, darkness consuming him as he heard a faint feminine voice calling out to him, "monsieur? Monsieur?"
Fleur had decided to walk along the river that morning because she though it was pretty. The thick fog, the waterlogged branches washed up onto the bank, the fast moving current from the storm the previous day. She knew this route well, off the path. Her bare feet sunk into the cool sand, her log copper hair flickered in the wind. She knew this area well. She hopped over a few huge logs, the hem of her skirt getting snagged on a branch. She sighed, and tugged at the tattered fabric until it tore loose from the gnarled branch. She turned and nearly gasped at what lay on the ground a few yards in front of her. A huge man with dark hair lay on his back. He didn't appear to be breathing. He was a dead man, obviously. She should turn and go. Leave. But her curiosity was getting the better of her. She took another step forward cautiously. A branch snapped beneath her foot and she nearly screamed in terror as the man shot up. His piercing blue eyes, enhanced by their bloodshot surroundings, stared straight into hers, his dark hair falling into his face, his lip bloodied, his cheek swollen and bruised. He looked like a wild animal. He let out a howl as he slumped back to the ground.
Fleur rushed to him, "Monsieur? Monsieur? Hold on, ok? You're going to be fine." She slid onto her knees beside the man, taking in his condition. His breaths here shallow, his shirt was torn. She noticed he was clutching onto his right arm. Fleur fought to keep the bile from rising in her throat when she caught sight of, and a whiff, of the waterlogged rotten wound. "Monsieur. If you can hear me, I'm going to get you help. Just please. Don't die."
The man groaned in response as Fleur hopped to her feet and bolted. The nearest town wasn't too far away. She tended to avoid towns but this was urgent. She knew the man needed a doctor. She also knew that she better have a story prepared for how she came across this man.
It must have been a shocking sight seeing this young woman burst into town in sheer panic; her light eyes wide, her skin white as a sheet.
"Please! Someone! We need help!"
Monsieur Renard set his rolls down gently as he approached the young woman, "mademoiselle? Is everything all right? You look as though you've seen a ghost"
The woman clung to him immediately in despair, tears welling up in her eyes. Townspeople gathered around her, whispers circulating through the crowd as to who was this woman. "Monsieur, my..my husband. We were.. traveling not to far from here..We are recently married, you see.. Bandits. Bandits attacked us and.. and he tried to protect me, he did, but he was badly injured and pushed into the river. They made off with everything we owned. He was swept downstream by the current. I searched for days until I found him on the bank not to far from here. Please! He needs a doctor. Can anyone help me?"
"Madame… His arm… amputation… no other way."
Gaston heard bits and pieces of people talking as he came to. His vision was blurred but he made out that he was in a room. He froze. Amputation? Never! He snarled and used his good arm and seized the nearest figure, he hazily saw a young woman, and managed to choke out, "no", before falling back to the bed.
Fleur had to admit she was getting carried away with helping this man as she spun the tale of how she and her husband had been traveling to Paris for their honeymoon and the bandits attacked them. As she talked to the police, she gave out fake descriptions of what she thought the men who attacked them looked like. Her dress was already torn so she did appear to look like she had been attacked. The townspeople took pity on her for losing everything, including her wedding ring, and possibly her new husband. She spun a tale about how heroic her, as she now called him, Jean had been as he fought the monstrous bandits to protect his beautiful little wife.
The innkeeper was a kindly old woman who offered Fleur and "Jean" a room to stay in while he recovered, no charge necessary. Fleur smiled and thanked her, offering to help with anything Madame Blanchet needed around the inn.
Fleur looked uneasily at the black haired man who writhed in pain as the doctor explained that the damage to his arm might be too severe. That amputation would most likely be necessary. Fleur looked at "Jean", feeling a great sadness. He looked like a man who prided himself on being at the peak of his physical being. It would be a shame for a man who must have been very handsome to lose such an asset. Fleur gasped as she felt a strong ice cold hand wrap around her arm as she was pulled towards the bed. She came face to face with "jean", which looked as though he had been listening to the doctor the whole time. "No" was the only word that came from his raspy deep voice. Fleur nodded, understanding, before turning to the doctor. The old man regarded the feverish man on the bed with great pity before turning to his small wife. She was remarkable, handling the situation quite well. She was very brave to be facing this alone. He would help her.
"You see, doctor, my husband cannot possibly lose his arm. He is a carpenter by trade and that is his whole life. His father and his father's father before him were carpenters as well; it runs in his blood… to lose that would. Kill him."
The doctor nodded understandingly, his brow knitted into a wave of worried wrinkles. "I will save his arm. But you must understand that he may experience great pain still even when the wound is healed. The strength in his arm will not return to its original state. But. He will heal."
Fleur beamed and hugged the doctor, "thank you, Monsieur."
The old man nodded gravely before returning to his patient and proceeded with the procedure. He hacked away at the rotten and dead flesh before he stitched up the gaping wound. He set the man's arm and bandaged before turning back to the young woman. "Madame Cloutier.. He will need to be watched through the night. If anything happens, come get me. Keep his fever down."
Fleur nodded and watched as the doctor left the room. She turned to the man lying in the bed who now was sleeping peacefully. She took this time to really look at the man. He was large.. larger than any man she had seen before, granted she hadn't seen many men. His thick black hair was coated in sweat, his skin pale. Her eyes traveled down to his defined cheekbones and angular face down to his sculpted chest and toned muscles. His chest rose steadily. She smiled slightly, proud in herself in saving this man, before whispering quietly, "thank you for not dying on me, Jean." Throughout most of the night, Fleur put cold rags on his forehead and reduced his fever. She tended to him tirelessly. She sat on the floor next to the bed, watching the clock pass from hour to hour. Her eyelids drooped and she rested her head on the edge of the bed, falling asleep.
