Chapter 1: A shadow in the storm

I crouch low when I notice the shadow entering the space under the bridge.

I had been sure to be alone. It is the only reason I allowed myself the small fire. I stifle the curse that wants to leave my lips. Instead, I hold out my hands.

I can't see more of him than his outline against the howling pitch black of the night, but for him my hands will stand out clearly in the light of the flames. Bare hands, apart from the gloves. The crisscross pattern of tears and mends in the fabric will also show him that it makes no sense to rob me. I have nothing of value.

Hopefully, the night is too cold for him to have other ideas what to do to a woman. Not that I would let him. Bare hands maybe, but I'm not defenseless if necessity demands.

He has stopped outside the circle of light. A tall man. Broad shoulders, too.

I slump, try to make myself smaller still. Better to be underestimated than to provoke an attack.

"I have nothing. Nothing but this fire. But I will share that." The words turn into mist even in the relative warmth next to the flames.

Of course he won't have to share. Judging by his size, he can throw me back out into the storm without even a strain to his muscles. Not my best option. I was lucky enough to find this space and get my fire going.

"Look, I don't want to freeze to death in the storm. Neither do you, I assume. So let's share peacefully."

Catching a glimpse of a leather coat, a gleam of polished steel at his side, a sudden flicker of red hair, I decide that he is a fighter. Somewhat better off than me, but not by much.

His stillness is beginning to unnerve me. Why is he not coming to the fire?

Then I see the slight tremble. I can't be sure, the gusts of wind make the fire flicker too wildly. But I'm sure enough.

"You're hurt."

For a moment I'm insecure while I try to judge the danger. Animals attack when they're hurt. So do humans.

Then my better side wins out.

"I can help. But you got to come over to the light."

I reach for my bag but avoid any fast movements. I open the bag and take my medical kit out so that he can see I'm not trying to trick him. The kit is small, but it can save a life.

He deliberates for another moment before making his decision.

When he steps into the light, I can see immediately that he is in no position to be moving through a storm. His face is too grey and his motions are too slow.

At least that alleviates my fears somewhat. I'm pretty sure he can't muster the strength for a full-blown attack. Still, better safe than sorry.

"I'm unarmed. What do you think about getting rid of that sword before I come closer to take a look?"

His face is a mask. All I can read is that he's in pain but has learned not to let it show. Finally, he reaches for his sword belt and the heavy steel clatters to the ground.

"Thank you."

I get up slowly, keeping my eyes on his as I walk over to him. I want to sense any movement before he ever makes it.

His eyes are green, best as I can tell in the flickering lights. He watches me without moving a muscle but I'm not fooled. Even without the sword, he can crush me like a fly.

When I'm in reach, I stop. "I'm going to take a look, ok?"

I wait for him to answer or even just nod permission, but he doesn't. He just stands there.

"Try not to kill me", I mutter to get over the stretching silence.

Still, I'm hesitant to touch him. Hesitant in a way that I'm not used to. This is my craft after all.

But I get over myself.

His coat is heavy and wet. My gloves come away red.

There is a large gash in his shirt. I carefully lift it. The torn flesh makes me wince. It's a deep gash. He has tried to still the flow of the blood but fighting his way through the storm has opened the wound again.

"Shouldn't let anyone get under your cover like this. It's a nasty wound."

I look up at him and see that his eyes are following me. He's sizing me up.

I swallow. "But the sword was sharp and the edges aren't frazzled, so that is good."

I feel nervous under his gaze. It makes my voice sharper than intended: "You really want to get that cleaned and stitched. If you want to live through the night, that is."

"I can't pay."

It's a shock when his bass suddenly vibrates through my body. I had almost taken him for a mute.

"We can work something out in the morning."

Not that I want to take advantage of a dying man but payment will fill my stomach. So I'm not going to pass up the opportunity if I don't have to.

I could let him die of course and just take what's in his pack. I look at the pack on his back judgingly.

He notices it, so I quickly cover it up: "Got a blanket in there somewhere? You'll need to lie down."

When he shakes his head, I sigh. "Come over to my side then. Try not to bleed on my blanket too much."

I help him out of his coat and his shirt. Immediately, he starts to shiver. It's cozy in our little shelter in comparison to the howling winds outside, which drive the snow in horizontal sheets, but cozy in comparison is not the same as warm.

So I put the coat back around his shoulders before I collect my medical kit and kneel down next to him.

There is a hunting knife in his belt and I can see the hilts of two throwing knives in his boots.

"You know this is going to hurt, right? You're not going use those knives on me?"

"You're safe."

It costs him effort to speak. I better not delay. "Alright."

I set my tools out methodically before I start by pouring a cleaning liquid into the wound. There is a sharp intake of breath and I can feel his pain soaring. Then my body and my training and my gift take over.

The first notes of the song come slowly, softly, lost to the howling winds. But with every movement the song gets stronger, steadier. Soon, I'm warm enough to take off my gloves. It's easier when I can touch him directly. Less painful for him, too. I can feel the rhythm of his heart slow down, follow my lead, beat with the song. I sing to it and to his mind, to make him sleep, make him forget about the pain. I weave the old song into the strands of cat gut and bind it from there into the flesh and the bones, into the blood vessels and the skin. I weave the song tight, to strengthen the fabric of his mortal being. To knit together what was broken.

When I'm finished, I'm exhausted. The fire has almost burned down without me even noticing.

I put his coat and his shirt over his sleeping form before I drag myself up to get more fire wood. Once the fire is back to strength, it takes all my willpower to make myself walk away from its warmth to collect some snow to melt.

The second I leave the enclosed confines of the bridge, the wind rips at my tattered coat and freezes me to the bone. I hurry best as I can.

I put the pot on the fire and search for the herbs. There isn't much left of my stores. The winter has been too long and too bitter. And to my shame, I haven't kept everything for my patients, as I should have.

My stomach rumbles loudly as it reminds me of why exactly I couldn't resist making some tea for myself. I tell my stomach to shut up and throw the last of the leaves into the water.

I watch him as I wait for the tea to be ready. It might be a trick of the light but to me his face looks less grey already.

Again, my belly rumbles to remind me that healing needs sustenance. I cast a longing gaze at his pack. Maybe, just maybe, he's got some food. He's unconscious right now and he won't come to until I sing him awake.

I have resorted to stealing before.

And the emptiness in my stomach is a constant pain.

And I saved his life.

But I can't get myself to do it. I haven't sunken that low before, stealing from an unconscious patient. I won't sink that low now.

Instead, I fill my cup from the second, smaller bowl. It is just water but at least it is hot.

I let it fill my stomach until the emptiness is bearable again.

If he has food, maybe he's willing to share. I saved his life after all.

When the tea is done, I carefully fill it into the cup. Every drop spilled is a drop I can't recover.

Then I let it cool for a moment.

I feel almost bad for waking him, he looks exhausted even now. It'll be much worse when he comes to. But there is no helping it, he needs to drink.

So I start the song. I sing it quietly, softly, calmly. I do not want to startle him.

But I startle him nonetheless. One single movement and the hunting knife is in his hand.

I sit frozen, the note on my tongue dying.

But then consciousness comes to him and he lets the knife sink.

I let out the breath I was holding and take the song up where it had stopped.

Still very careful, I pick up the cup.

The song wraps its essence around the steam, drops deep into the heat of the liquid. I can feel it take shape and form and expand and fill the leaves with a power they don't usually have.

I don't break the song but I look up at him, asking his permission with my eyes while the song changes, takes what it found in the leaves and transforms it so it can melt with his body when he drinks.

I can see the hesitation in his eyes and I drag out the notes, make the song go in circles and repeats for the moment. I need his agreement or the song won't find a hold in his body and my efforts will have been for naught.

I can feel the energy draining out of me fast. I can't keep this up for long. I plead with him, silently, while keeping the tune as steady as I can. Finally he nods, almost imperceptibly, but the song notices and takes a leap, latches on to his essence.

I can feel him shudder as I set the cup to his lips. He drinks, slowly, with effort, but he drinks. The song spreads and I can feel how it courses through his body, belly first, but then spreading to his limbs until it reaches the fingertips and toes, curls around, goes back up, settles into his chest, finds the wound and burns away whatever evil there was left in it.

I can hardly get the last few notes out before I keel over.

Author's Note: Usual disclaimers apply. Undertaker and Kane are not my characters. Everything and everyone else is all mine. Including all the magic. :)