Chapter Two: Medicine

"Medic!" he cried desperately, crashing to his knees upon the ground. There was blood in his eyes, and it was interfering with his ability to use the Sharingan. He blazed its powers wildly, striking out at any enemy that came too close. Belatedly, he realized that if there were a medic, he might hit them, too. He sagged, feeling defeated. "Medic," he mumbled, feeling the strength sapped from his limbs.

The battlelust was waning. Adrenaline faded from his system, and as he mourned its loss, the pain returned. He took stock of his wounds. The broken fingers weren't a problem. Neither was the blow to the head he had apparently taken. The worrisome part was the deep gash in his thigh. It was gushing precious blood and simply would not stop bleeding. He had tried to wrap his shirt around it, but somewhere along the way, the knot had come undone and now his shirt was gone.

"Medic…"

His eyes blinked rapidly, attempting to clear the blood from his eyes so he could see. Through the red haze, he saw the banner waving. The retreat, he realized. The final retreat, right before the… "Big boom," he giggled, delirious. He shut his eyes, accepting the end.

There was a crash of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning. A lot of heat. He shut his eyes and blacked out.

He was sure he was dead when he dreamed of a maiden. There were exceedingly few women on the battlefield, so he had to be dead or dreaming. His eyes were covered, but her voice was rich and silken as she told him to lie still. He felt his clothing being removed and praised the heavens above. If I am dead, it isn't so bad, he mused.

He was slain when he felt her hands upon him, and he moved to cover them with one of his own. He managed to capture one of her hands before she tried to pull away, but despite his weakened state, he held fast. "Who are you?" he begged, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. The skin of her hand was soft and smooth.

There was a sharp exhalation of breath as she squirmed her hand out of his grip. "It is better if you don't know," she said tersely.

"I'm—"

"It's better if I don't know, either," she broke in, even more insistent. He backed off, for he didn't have the energy to press. Her hands went back to his chest, and he sighed into her touch.

"You're right," he agreed, letting his hand fall. It was still nice to be cared for. "I must be dead after all," he murmured as he returned to his slumber, for surely she did not belong out here. He was grateful, anyway, that she was there, whether she was real or not. His last thought was wishing that he had at least gotten to see her face before he passed.

This is fate, she decided, watching the big man sleep, wincing in unconscious pain with every breath. His skin was blistered with heat scars from head to toe, there was an angry, weeping wound on his thigh, broken through her quick patch healing, and he'd clearly taken a heavy blow to the head. "You should be dead," she whispered after he'd proclaimed that he must be, tracing light fingertips over the wounds. Unconsciously, his hand moved to cover hers again and, because he was sleeping and knew not what he was doing, she allowed it. If touching her gave him comfort and helped him to heal, it would be all to the good.

With her other hand, she delved her own chakra into his body and began knitting up the worst of it. Her patch on his thigh had broken on the journey, and, though it didn't bleed as heavily as before, it still needed to be repaired. He sighed with pleasure at the warm contact of energy and stirred in his sleep. She couldn't help but smile as the wound in his thigh closed up again. His injuries would still take some time to heal, but she was not in the habit of completely depleting her chakra unless a life was threatened, and whoever this was, he was in no danger of dying now. His broken fingers she left alone. Setting the bones now would wake him, and he was exhausted already. It would be better if he slept through the wounds inflicted by his burns.

It has to be a fated meeting, she thought again as her eyes roamed his bare body. She had never seen an unclothed man before, and the sight of it intrigued her. She couldn't keep herself from tracing the lines of hard muscle, marveling at how firm a man's body was compared to a woman's. She had chosen to stand up for herself, to tell her father that she was, under no circumstances, going to marry whomever he told her to, and now this.

As the heir to the Uzumaki clan, and unfortunately a woman, she was raised with certain expectations. She would need to marry into another powerful clan and use the disadvantage of her sex to further clan connections across the land. Her body was nothing but a tool, to be given to her husband for the purpose of procreation and to further his name. Her marriage would be arranged by her father, and she would have little say in the matter, if any. She had been raised to be accepting of this fact, but as her mind aged and matured, she found herself less pleased by the idea. How could anyone expect her to marry a man she had never met? What if he was unkind? What if he was three times her age? What if she just simply didn't like him?

Her eyes wandered to the sleeping man with his badly broken fingers curled tightly around hers, oblivious of the pain. What if he's like him, though? She wondered with a girlish blush on her pale cheeks. Powerful, handsome, and gentle. That would be ideal.

Without warning, he shivered, and her medical senses flared in alarm. She lay the back of one hand to his forehead. He was freezing. One swift environmental check and she realized that yes, it was chilly out here in the wilderness. It was only the onset of spring, and deep in the cool forest the temperature was much lower than it was in the sunshine. Furthermore, she'd found him without a shirt on, and she didn't have anything that would fit him. And, too, there was that small matter of her having run away from home with nothing but the clothes on her back.

His fingers tightened on hers and his teeth chattered, and she felt obligated to fix it, somehow. She could build a fire, but so soon on the heels of battle, that might be unwise. Any stragglers from either army might see the flame in the approaching evening, and she did not wish to be found out. There was only one way she could think of to warm him, though, and she found it embarrassing. After all, she knew nothing about this man, and she had shared her skin with no man before. Her modesty was strangely important to her, though it probably didn't help that her father had reiterated that she was a useless marriage prospect if any man lay with her that was not her husband.

Despise her father she might, but Mito found herself desperately wishing for his approval anyhow. If he could see me now, she thought wryly as she shed her kimono and draped the elaborate folds of fabric over them both.

Don't you freeze to death, she pleaded silently, setting her mouth in a firm line as she pressed her skin to his wounded body. If I have to bare myself to you just to have you die, you will never be forgiven. She tried not to shift too much in consideration of the nasty burns, but contact was necessary. Once she was comfortable-relatively speaking-she loosed a heavy sigh, critical of the situation. Hopefully, he wouldn't wake while she was still snuggled into him in naught but her skin. Her mouth drew into a firm frown, intensely uneasy.

As time passed, however, the discomfort faded. She hadn't realized how tense she was until her muscles began to relax. It was oddly soothing, she soon discovered, to feel the warmth of another person's skin upon one's own. Before long, she found her face pressed into his arm, breathing easier than she had in a long time. The warmth that generated between them was like a drug, and she was worn out from healing his injuries. Before long, her eyelashes fluttered and closed. I'll just rest my eyes for a short while, she told herself. I'm not tired. But the sounds of the forest were hypnotizing, and the sound of another person's heartbeat and breathing was a rhythm that promised pleasant dreams. Before long, she was dragged into slumber, and she didn't care enough to fight it. As they lay sleeping, he was unaware that he had reached for her, and she was unaware that she had wrapped herself up in his embrace.

When she awoke, eyes drifting open and across to the one she lay with, he had taken off the head bandage, and his dark eyes were staring deep into her soul. "Who are you?" he demanded quietly, calmly. His tone was commanding, noble even, a voice used to being obeyed. He expected her answer, immediately and without waffling.

Despite that, she knew she could never give her name. She couldn't be sure that this man was an ally, and the risk was not worth it. "You probably don't remember our conversation," she mumbled, more to herself. Of course he didn't remember discussing their names—or lack thereof. "Do you usually give out your name to strangers?" she asked instead.

He peered into her eyes, and she realized suddenly that he had not let go of her fingers. Because he didn't trust her? Or because he did? "No," he answered after a moment.

His glance flickered down her front, and belatedly she remembered that neither of them were wearing any clothing. She blushed, crossing her arms over her body. "You were wounded, and freezing to death," she explained. "I… couldn't think of anything else."

A smile played at his lips, but to his credit, he managed to keep it to himself. "I suppose it was you that saved my life then. I thank you for it."

She lowered her eyes modestly. "It was nothing." She rose from their spot on the ground and began the process of redressing. Then, she looked down at the wounded man. Was reminded that her kimono had been their blanket for the night. She bit her lip, grasped the edge of the fabric, and jerked it off of his body.

He shivered dramatically. "Still cold," he told her with a smirk, as if being naked came completely naturally to him and didn't bother him at all.

"Your trousers are there," she told him, pointing without looking. "You weren't wearing a shirt," she further explained. When he couldn't see it, though, she smiled, enjoying the banter. Since leaving home, she had had few truly friendly conversations; she hadn't talked to many people, by personal choice. She waited as he slowly—too slowly, even for a wounded man—found his pants and tugged them on. After a minute or so, she realized what he must be doing: waiting for her to lose patience and peek at him again.

She would not let him win.

"How did you save me?" he asked conversationally. She heard him hiss in pain as the coarse fabric of his clothes scraped against tender, healing skin.

"Careful," she cautioned, ignoring the question.

"Done," he announced.

She turned to see him, glad that he hadn't lied. Having to see him nude for professional reasons was completely different than choosing to see him for personal reasons. It was. They watched each other awkwardly for several moments. His eyes were fixated on hers. She was not going to wilt under anyone's stare, though, so she was matching him stare for stare. Finally, when she'd had enough of it, she broke the silence. "I don't know who you are, or how to return you to your people, whoever they are," she admitted. "But, you won't be ready to travel alone for at least another week." She flicked a glance down his front, indicating his many wounds. "Your burns still need healing attention, and you've taken a blow to the head. You shouldn't be alone until we're sure your mind is okay."

He frowned. "My mind is fine."

Her chin raised. "Are you a medic?" she challenged. It was a gamble. She had no idea if he was a medic, but judging solely by his musculature, he was a combat fighter only, and she was confident enough to try to browbeat him into submission. Medics were famous for harassing patients, anyway, she reminded herself, and she hadn't had a whole lot of practice with it. He shook his head with a sheepish grin. "A blow to the head could be fine," she explained clinically, "but if you stress yourself over the next few days, your brain could hemorrhage and you could die. I would feel much better if you remained for a few days. It would look poorly upon me if I saved you only for you to march to a fool's death."

He held up his hands in surrender. "You win," he told her. "I'll stay. If you wanted to spend more time with me," he commented teasingly as he sat back upon the ground, "all you needed to do was say so."

She shot him a furious glare before starting a fire, and eventual breakfast. And so passed the first day between Uchiha Madara and Uzumaki Mito.