Guy surveyed the room through barely open eyes, trying to make sense of where he was and how he had gotten there. He remembered the fight. Remembered 'dying.' Remembered commandeering the horse. But after that, everything was hazy. He remembered falling and then a girl, her face in shadow, backlit by the setting sun. He remembered his incoherent rage at her interruption of the private agony of his death. By then, he had abandoned hope of finding a peaceful place and the middle of the road seemed just fine. He remembered squeezing the slender stalk of the girl's neck under his fingers. Violence would follow him even to death, it seemed.
He cursed his body for refusing to die because now he was here and the girl had turned out to be a harpy of a healer with mousy, tangled hair, a plain brown shift and demanding questions. But he grew distracted as she moved purposefully through the room, pounding herbs with a mortar and pestle and then placing them in two separate bowls. She drew a dipperful of boiling water and poured it over each bowl of herbs. A pleasant, flowery smell drifted through the cottage adding to the sense of peace Guy was beginning to feel stealing over him. The pain was a distant throb and the numbness in his fingers and toes was beginning to spread. Perhaps death was approaching at last. It was warm and quiet in the cottage and while it was not the location of his choosing, Guy began to feel that it might not be a bad place to die.
So he did not protest when she knelt beside him and cut away his black linen shirt with her silver scissors. He even felt an uncharacteristic urge to comfort her when he noticed the tears sparkling in her eyes as she finally beheld the entirety of his wounds. After all, why should a healer cry over him and why should he care if she did? After soaking a cloth in one of the solutions, she began gently cleansing the wounds. The liquid stung and fresh blood seeped forth. He could feel it pooling beneath him. Oddly, the healer did not attempt to staunch the flow. Not that it mattered. He closed his eyes, fully expecting his heart to stop at any moment. It never occurred to him that he had been telling himself that all day.
He felt the cool touch of her hand on his forehead. "Are you awake? Can you answer me?" she asked. Had she really sounded waspish, just a little while ago? Her voice sounded soft and husky now. She smoothed the tangled hair back from his face. "I need you to understand what I'm going to tell you. Please…" the last word was almost a sob. He took pity on her.
"Awake," he whispered, opening his eyes. She was sitting very close, holding the other bowl of herbal fluid. In the lamplight, her brown eyes glinted with golden sparks. "Don't…cry over me." A faint pink flush spread over her cheeks and she looked away briefly.
But all too soon her gaze returned to lock with his. "I believe that I may be able to counteract the poison. I think…no I'm sure, I must be, that because you have bled so much, the poison has been slower to take hold in your body. It's the only explanation I have for why you're still alive." Her mouth quirked in a wry smile. "Other than sheer stubbornness."
He frowned. "Don't…want to be cured. I want…to die." He turned his face away from her, away from the look in her eyes. She had none of the dispassion of the healers he had known. None of the detachment. For whatever reason, this was personal for her. A personal battle she seemed determined to win, for the outrageous girl actually took hold of his chin and forced him to look at her again.
"You may still get that chance. You have lost a lot of blood. Your insides may be damaged. The antidote might kill you. I can't be sure. But I've seen this kind of wound before and if I can only counter the poison, I think I can heal it…this time." The hand holding the bowl trembled, the precious liquid sloshing perilously toward the sides. She set it down again. "Please. I have to try."
This time, Guy mused. So she had lost someone, probably someone dear, to a similar wound. That much was clear. The old Guy would have resented her insistence. Offering his body as redemption for a simple village healer wasn't something he would have considered his responsibility before. Before was the key word, wasn't it? Because for a brief time, he'd been allied with a man who did consider such things to be his responsibility. A man to whom altruism was a way of life. Robin had forgiven him the worst crime imaginable, provided him with the means to redeem himself, called him friend at the end and damn the bastard to hell, had changed Guy.
Practically his whole life had been an endless stream of complications, plots, mistakes and misjudgments. Could not even something as simple as death be easy? He sighed, silently cursing the fact that while the poison and his wound had weakened his body, his mind remained clear enough to decide it had a conscience after all. One way or the other, he was going to die; he was sure of it. A few extra hours of pain meant nothing to him, but it might mean a lot to her. He took her hand.
"Try."
###
Afton watched the man closely. He was thinking about it, she knew it. She cursed herself for letting her emotions show. Had she not been so exhausted and in so much pain herself, she would never have allowed it to happen. She tried to prepare herself for refusal but she could not shake the lingering sensation of fate she had felt when she found the Moor's flowers. This man was meant to be here. For reasons still unclear to her, the Goddess had placed him in her path. What possible purpose would there be for that, if he chose to die?
"Try."
The word was little more than a whisper but she felt electricity surge between them as his eyes locked on hers and he took her hand. Her scalp prickled and gooseflesh rose on her arms. She felt infused with power, and more than a little frightened. Drawing a cleansing breath, she cradled his head in her hand, lifting it slightly.
"We'll start by having you drink this…" After the first sip, he struggled against it, clamping his lips closed and trying to turn his head away. "You said you wanted me to try."
"Didn't say I'd be happy…about it," the man answered irritably. "Bitter."
She started to speak and thought the better of what she was going to say. She could manage a difficult patient much more easily than one with a death wish. "Don't make me hold your nose. Because I will do it," she retorted crisply. Reluctantly, sip by sip, the man swallowed all of the bitter brew.
"Why's medicine always…bitter?" he asked weakly.
"Hush. Stop talking and save your strength. We've not even begun the worst part of this, you and I." She considered for a moment, deciding something. "My name is Afton Cooper, though I daresay you'll be using more unsavory names for me before I'm done stitching you up." She looked at him pointedly, hoping he would give his name without being asked, but instead caught his puzzled expression.
"Afton? Not…a saint's name."
Why must everything be crammed into the confines of Christianity? she thought irritably. "It is not," she said, a tinge of pride in her voice. "My mother named me for the river Afton."
"The priest …allowed it?"
Afton rolled her eyes. "Of course not. I have a Christian saint's name, but my mother never used it and neither do I. My mother believed that the Christian faith is not the only true one."
The man made the sign of the cross, though it was an obvious effort. "You are…a pagan? A witch?"
"I'm sure I have been called so. I am a healer, nothing more," she replied carefully. Her mother had impressed upon her at an early age to be cautious about discussing such things with strangers. Christian or pagan, healers always lived in danger of persecution. One chance word, an untimely death or injury, even a spat with a neighbor could mean the stake.
"Still…you need to…beware the witch hunters." His expression was genuinely concerned.
"I can take care of myself, thank you. Now enough talking, whoever you are." She pressed her lips together and glared. Surprisingly, she heard a rumble that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
"Guy. Name's…Guy."
"All right then, Guy. Now you hush." He did, not even uttering so much as a murmur as she helped him roll onto his side so she could clean and examine the puncture on his back more thoroughly. He remained silent when she took up her needle and red thread and began the excruciating process of stitching the wound, the shallower of the two. The blade had entered high on his shoulder, piercing muscle but missing his heart. She glanced up from her work now and then to find his eyes on her. Each time, she felt another pulse of the strange energy and it sustained her through the arduous process.
Afton did not realize he had been biting his lip until she saw the trickle of blood leak from the corner of his mouth. Wordlessly, she bathed his lip and face with a soft cloth soaked in the cooled goldenseal infusion.
She made a thick pad of linen bandages and pressed it to the stitched puncture to cushion it. Then, she helped him roll onto his back once again. She moved on to clean and examine the deeper belly wound, hoping that the blade had not punctured any of his internal organs. The position of the cut was lucky, low enough to have missed his heart, yet high enough to have missed his stomach. Afton silently blessed her mother for teaching her about the inner workings of the body.
As she worked the fine, even stitches she wondered why such a brave man wished for death so fervently. Clearly he had no fear of pain. He simply endured it, almost as though it was something he expected and was accustomed to. She finished her stitching and glanced at his face once more. His eyes were closed and she wondered if he had finally passed out from the pain but as she watched, they fluttered open in an expression close to panic. After a moment, his gaze fell on her and he relaxed slightly.
Afton welcomed the moment, a familiar one. She had seen it many times in laboring mothers. Most of the time, they didn't need help, merely the comfort of knowing there was someone present who knew what to do. But Guy did need her help and there was still so much more to be done.
"Shhhh…it's all right," she said softly, not wanting to startle him. "Yes, I'm still here. I'm going to prepare a poultice and then I'll bandage this wound with it. It's much deeper than the other. Then you can try to sleep if you like."
"Not…until you do. You're tired…too." His voice was raspy and his lips were dry. She dipped a clean cloth in water and dribbled a few drops into his mouth. "More? So thirsty."
"Not until I'm sure your innards are all in working order." She laid the cloth aside and rose, fetching a cauldron with yet another herbal liquid simmering in it. She began to dip strips of linen in the liquid, soaking them and laying them aside to cool. "And don't be ridiculous. I'll probably be up with you all night. Besides, I'm used to being tired. I don't expect people to take my rest into consideration when they get sick or hurt. Babies certainly come when they will. And this place doesn't care for itself, either." She flushed, regretting the snappish tone in her voice, but the truth was she did not need any reminders of her exhaustion.
"No…help? Husband?"
Her cheeks burned hotter. "No." She began laying the warm strips of linen over the stitched wound. "Is it too hot? Don't talk, just nod. Talking is too much effort." She spoke quickly to cover her discomfiture. When the last strip was in place, she sat back and surveyed her work. She had done all she could for the time being except watch, wait and change the medicinal bandages. Perhaps another dose of the antidote in the morning. If he survived that long.
"Af…ton. Rest." Guy moved his hand slowly towards where she knelt, pushing against her hip. "Go."
"I told you, I can't." Her voice was thick with unshed tears. She was tired, dirty, overwhelmed and wholly unused to having anyone care about her well-being in even a small way. Undone by the gesture of concern, she turned away before he could see the tears spill over.
"Rest," he repeated. Stubborn bastard. Blindly, she staggered to her feet and nearly fell because they were so numb. Then the pins and needles hit and she bit down on a scream. Hobbling the few steps to her bed, she yanked at the woolen blankets until they pulled free. He would need the warmth. And perhaps she would lie down for a just moment, beside him so that she would be close if he needed her.
Dragging the blankets back to where Guy lay before the fire, she made a rough pallet from one and laid it along his right side. The other, she spread over him. Casting herself down beside him, she twitched a corner of the blanket over her legs and was instantly asleep.