"There is a fine line between loving life and being greedy for it."—Maya Angelou
Greed
A cold, ethereal mist covered the crests and valleys of the Tirragen hills that were infested with bandits this March. The wretched cowards, who were hiding behind boulders that lurked like giant heads on the slope above Lerant's position by his lord, slinging mud and rocks and firing a steady stream of arrows.
Drawing his finger back on his own bowstring until it was taut with lethal energy, Lerant entertained a vivid fantasy of flushing the villains out of their concealment. Then, through the tendrils of fog, his sword would lock with each thief's one at a time. His blade would cut through the thick, damp air that was already seeping into his lungs and probably rusting his armor, and, after a flurry of attacks and parries, every one of his opponents would lie dead. Lerant would be a hero.
Everybody in the realm would know his name, instead of Aunt Delia's, and every commander of every armed forces unit that had dared to refuse Lerant entry would feel the same humiliation of rejection that he had. All of them would come to him, inviting and practically pleading with him to join their troops, and, smiling haughtily, he would explain that Raoul was his lord—the man who was his to serve and defend as long as energy filled his muscles. The commanders would clear their throats, beam just as falsely into his face, and assure him that they understood, of course. Then, finally, Lerant would have the satisfaction of knowing that they at last understood how it felt to struggle to maintain one's composure when one had already lost all dignity.
Lerant blamed this wistful daydream for distracting him from the fight where he should have been focused only on protecting his lord's life with his sweat and blood. That had to be the only reason he hadn't seen the arrow piercing through the mist toward Lord Raoul, who was twisted in his saddle, shouting an order to Dom's squad, stationed behind them in a barely visible array. Lerant wanted to call out a warning, but his mind told him he didn't have time for that, while his body spurred his horse into a leap directly in front of Lord Raoul on an intercept course with the oncoming arrow.
The moment swung out of control into an alternate plane of reality in which time slowed. He could see the arrow speeding toward him, and he got a cold, sick feeling deep in his intestines that meant that something was about to happen that would change him, even though he didn't want it to, and he couldn't stop it. Now, there would be a before and an after, a was and a will be, and he would never again be the same person as he was in this second.
He knew with a pain that lanced into his heart like an arrow that he would not have time to move out of its path now. If he was lucky, something he had never been, it would ricochet off his armor and land uselessly in the mud puddles. If he wasn't—a far more likely prospect—it would slice through a chink or groove in his armor, tearing into his flesh and lodging there until it was yanked out to do at least as much damage leaving as it had upon arrival.
He gritted his teeth to brace himself for an impact that could bring an infection more deadly than many injuries and closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the arrow whizzing toward him. Honor and duty had already been satisfied by his throwing himself in the path of the arrow aimed at his lord. He didn't have to watch—in slow motion, especially—his own maiming or death.
As if this thought had speeded up whatever remained of his life once again, he felt a searing pain in his shoulder. Tears leaked from the cracks between his eyelids. He wanted to scream or curse, but he couldn't find the words or the breath He hadn't known that blinding, debilitating pain like this truly existed. He should have been pulling the arrow from his shoulder, but he was so dizzy that he feared any sudden movement would make him faint out of his saddle. The Own still hadn't stopped teasing Raoul for falling out of the saddle after falling asleep inside of it, and Lerant would still die before he allowed himself to become fodder for mockery in the only armed force that would accept him into their ranks.
He could feel someone racing forward to support his back, ensuring he wouldn't suffer the pain of falling out of his saddle onto the unsympathetic ground. Fingers reached out to grasp the arrow jutting from Lerant's shoulder, and, in a dim daze, he stared into Dom's eyes, which had suddenly gone grimmer than Lerant had imagined that they could possibly have.
"Stay still," Dom ordered in his best calm sergeant voice. "My uncle is the Crown's chief healer."
"That doesn't mean you know the difference between my knee and elbow," growled Lerant, wishing that this simple sentence didn't sap him of nearly all his strength.
"Save your breath, and brace yourself, because when I count to ten, I'm removing this arrow." Dom's grip on the arrow tightened, so that his knuckles gleamed white even against the pale fog. "Now," he went on casually, as though he were discussing tonight's dinner, "this procedure is what I like to call reduction, because it reduces the pain by—ten!"
The last word came out as loud as a battle cry, and Lerant felt a tug on his shoulder as the arrow was ripped out of his flesh. His muscle screamed in strain, and blood trickled from the groove on his armor. Mist started to invade his mind, probably infiltrating his body through his nose and mouth. He managed to choke out, "For a smug idiot, you aren't a bad healer, but your bedside manner needs a bit of improvement—arrows are more compassionate than you."
Then, the fog in his head swallowed his whole brain, and he could only shut his eyes, slumping, unconscious and mouth agape, against Dom. Everything, even his triumph over keeping his lord safe from the bandits, slipped into a numb blackness from which he doubted he would ever emerge.