Knives watched the blood fall from his thumb and splatter on the wide leaf of a orchid. With a silent, stoic curiosity, he squeezed another droplet loose and then tugged she skin open to peer inside. The first knuckle of his thumb was almost exposed in the cut, deeper than it should've been. Guess he'd sharpened the shears a bit too well.
He'd end up with marrow-poisoning, like the last time he'd accidentally cut himself so deep, in bone. The shears were left between orchid pots, because he had to disinfect and cover the wound before he could continue pruning.
This he did, and he stepped back into the deep recesses of the garden once more to go about his chores. A little voice cried out, and he stopped, stooped low, and scooped a chatty cat upon his shoulder. Petting it absentmindedly, he wondered what he might have for lunch. Chamber after chamber, he walked the long walk back to the orchids, the cat lost interest and leapt away, time passed, it didn't really matter.
Orchids white, purple, yellow, small, spider-like, dainty, robust, greeted him again. The wind fluttered sheets of frosted plastic, tossing little sand grains against the garden wall. A bee buzzed past him, and he grabbed for his shears.
A tomas approached.
It was faint, at first, like an imagined sound, but it came at him and its steps were quick. His heartbeats outpaced it, until finally it came near, and flew to his left, passing him.
Knives took off in a sprint, chasing the hazy image of a tomas in jog, just yards from the garden wall. It came from the direction Vanessa'd left from, approximately. But there was no cart, and only one tomas, that much he could tell from through the milky plastic walls.
He'd left Vanessa at the complex, with the human, so long ago, and the return she'd mentioned never happened, not when it should have. So, clearly, something happened, something he hadn't expected at first, but she was back.
But it could be the human, something could have gone wrong. Why else would their best cart be abandoned, and one of their strongest toma? Why else should she ride in so hastily? It wasn't good for a tomas to end a trip in a run! She knew that!
The thing outpaced him, though he ran through the garden to the shack, to his only exit out into the desert, in the direction the tomas ran, though he ran as fast as he could. His throat caught, his heart pounded painfully, until he reached the door and burst into the blistering sun.
Squinting as his eyes adjusted, he rushed to where the tomas stopped. It was on the ground, wheezing, and its rider was still crouched forward in racing position. The tomas wasn't his, the bridle wasn't his, and the rough, brown cloth the rider wore about his head and body were completely unfamiliar.
He could be armed!
Knives felt for the shears, he must have shoved them into the loop on the leg of his pants. "This is a knife," he began, raising it up to the back of the man's neck threateningly, pressing its open blades into the wrappings. "Stand, slowly," he growled, applying some pressure to the open shears. His eyes were adjusting gradually. "You will tell me where you came from. Stand up and tell me - where is Vanessa?" he commanded, growing anxious.
The rider didn't move, just remained pitched forward on its exhausted mount.
Anger boiling up, he screamed at the stranger. "Tell me!" he demanded.
With still no response, he thought perhaps this human was unconscious, as his tomas was. He drew the shears away. Lifting his foot slowly, he nudged the stranger's shoulder. No response. He shoved harder, sending the rider to slide off the saddle, into the sand beside the tomas, like a ragdoll.
Knives roared, impatient. If this man had any information about Vanessa, he wanted it immediately. To wait for the man to wake, how infuriating!
But if the man died, of exhaustion, which the tomas he rode in on was bound to do as well, Knives would never know! Running once more to the barn nearby, Knives filled a bucket from the water spout inside.
As he carried it carefully to the rider, his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, and he could see the embroidery detail on the tomas bridle. He saw the raw, ragged hem of the rider's cloak lift in a gust of wind and expose a bare leg, still slung on the saddle. He realized this was Vanessa.
The bucket of water he took to her crumpled form. He dropped to his knees beside her, and unwound the torn cloth from her head. She was pale, gaunt, sweaty and dirty. She breathed hoarsely. Lifting a ladle to her dry lips, he poured water down her throat. She coughed as it poured down, unconscious. The brown cloak fell back to cover her leg as he lifted her limp body from the saddle, the deeply scarred thigh disappearing yet again. Cradling her in his arms, he carried her out of the harsh noon sun.