Unexpected Healing

Disclaimer: As usual, all the important bits like the Hound, world, etc (pretty much everything but the situation) are not mine – GRRM owns it all. (I mean, seriously, what did you expect – this is a fanfic site...)

Chapter 2

A bell chimed softly as Sandor ducked through the doorway and stepped into the small herbalist's shop. Winding his way through the shop's labyrinthine interior, the tall swordsman made his way towards the back counter, shoulders brushing shelves filled with glass vials, ceramic jars, and bundles of plants. His heavy tread caused the glasses to clink together sharply as he strode deeper into the warm, dimly lit space. Drying herbs hung from the rafters, and the smell of dried herbs and burning incense blended not unpleasantly with the medicinal tang that wafted from the back of the room.

Two lanterns hung above the far counter and illuminated an ancient, frail-looking man who waited patiently as a woman ground something in a large mortar. Without pausing in her grinding, the herbalist added several ingredients from the array of vials and bowls on the bench top. She spoke softly to the elderly man as she worked. The woman was little more than a girl, Sandor noted in surprise as she looked up briefly from her work.

She smiled in greeting as Sandor approached. "If you can wait a couple of moments, I'm nearly finished here. You look like you could use a bit of warming and refreshment, friend. Why don't you take a seat by fire, over there, and dry off a bit? There's tea ready if you wish."

Water dripped from the thick green cloak, pooling on the wooden floor as the Hound considered telling the old man to bugger off and simply demanding the girl help him now. In his wine-soaked state, he couldn't be bothered pressing the issue. "Fine, just don't be long," he rasped and turned back towards the fireplace near the entrance.

Two chairs and a stool were arranged around a small table to the side of the fire. A kettle hung above the small fire and a set of brown earthenware mugs sat on the table, chipped with hard use, but clean. Sandor settled himself into one of the chairs so he could keep one eye on the two at the counter and the other eye on the entrance to the shop. He stretched his legs out towards the fire and warmth quickly began to creep into the damp wool he kept wrapped around himself.

Sandor tried to remain vigilant as he listened to the quiet conversation in the back and watched the door. He fidgeted in annoyance, shifting his sword at his hip, resting his hand on the hilt as the scabbard settled against the side of the chair.

His heavy cloak began to steam with the warmth of the fire and the familiar smell of wet wool filled his nose, almost overpowering the smells of the shop. The soporific effects of wine and warmth began to assert themselves and Sandor's eyes drifted shut. His head fell back to rest against the high back of the chair and his hands dropped to his side, relaxed, as he slipped deeper into sleep.

xxxxxx

"I'll be fine, Jensen. Get yourself home while there's a break in this weather." With a steadying hand on his elbow, the young woman ushered the hunched, old man towards the door.

"But that man," he whispered and shot the sleeping figure a worried glance. "You don't even know who he is, Nahayria."

"Don't worry about me, Jensen. Killian is just upstairs if I need anything," she reassured her would-be protector and guided him closer to the shop's entrance.

"Well, if your brother's here..." The elderly man hesitated as he tried to peer under the cloak's deep hood. While he looked back, Nahayria pulled the door open.

"I appreciate your concern, Jensen. Now remember, the ointment works best if used before you go out in the cold."

"Alright, my dear. Just be careful."

"I will, and goodnight." Nahayria stood in the doorway and watched the ancient man hobble down the street, maintaining her vigil as he made his way to The Plucked Goose. At first, the wind simply swirled around her ankles blowing a handful of leaves into the room behind her, but as Jensen pushed through the door of the tavern, the rain started in earnest again and a strong gust drove her backwards. Staggering with the force of the wind, she grabbed the doorframe to steady herself and shut the door with her shoulder. Luckily the lantern by the door had been sheltered from the blast, but fire flared and spat like and angry tomcat.

A quick glance over her shoulder showed the stranger was still asleep. It had been a long day for the young healer and she took a moment to savour the quiet as she looked out the window at the rain. The sounds of wind and fire were underscored by a rumbling snore from the cloaked figure. It was a surprisingly peaceful sound and she was suddenly loath to wake him so she lingered over putting the shop to rights. She replaced bundles of herbs and containers that had been pushed over by the wind. Eventually, she ran out of things to tidy so she took the lantern from the window and turned to the man by the fire.

The gust of air that had driven her back into the shop and stirred the fire had pushed the green hood partway back, exposing a scarred and drawn visage. From the smell of him, she could tell that he was sleeping the drunkard's dreamless slumber. From the look of him, she decided that he most probably deserved it.

Nahayria set the lantern on the table and looked down at the horror that had once been a face. The left side of the man's head was a ruin, his features obliterated by a shapeless mass of blackened flesh. The scarring was horrendous; it was far, far worse than anything she'd ever seen. In contrast, the right side was relatively unmarked, if one could ignore the deep lines around his eye and creasing his brow. It would take more than sleep to erase the lines scored by such pain.

Looking at the gaunt, drawn face it was hard to imagine what the swordsman would have looked like had he not been burned. On someone else the deep brow, sharp cheekbones, and hooked nose might have been distinguishing and given them a haughty, noble countenance. Now, they only gave the man a hard and unkind look. Little wonder that he drank until he passed out.

Saddened by what she saw, Nahayria moved to the fireplace and began adding ingredients to the kettle for a tea that would help clear his blood and prevent a morning-after headache. She placed the steaming kettle beside the two cups on the table and lit a small clump of incense to help mask the sour smell of old wine.

While she waited for the tea to brew, she drew the stool closer to the man's chair and sat down to wait, careful to avoid the sword at his side. As she watched, the scars around his mouth twitched violently. His brow furrowed even deeper and he groaned softly. It was a low animal sound that hurt just to hear it.

Without thought, she reached out to sooth him, the back of her fingers brushing his brow. Still asleep, the man turned his head slightly towards the source of the touch - just like a baby would. It was an unbidden, surprisingly tender response.

There were places where the flesh had been burned off nearly to the bone. Places where the tissue that remained was an angry, raw red. She carefully avoided touching these spots so as to not cause any more pain, but she studied them with a healer's practiced eye.

As gently as possible, she skimmed her finger tips lower over the burned man's temple until they rested just below his left eye where a thick ridge of scar tissue started. The mark ran down to his jaw line and a filigree of smaller scars crisscrossed the raised surface. The tension was palpable as she cupped the scarred cheek gently in her small hand. Erratic twitches jumped under her palm as the tightly interwoven scars pulled the flesh in different directions. The muscles underneath the twisted mass were constantly straining and even in sleep, tension didn't truly leave the jaw.

There were things she could have done to reduce the damage were it still freshly burned, but too much time had passed and they wouldn't help now. The residual pain could be managed, but if the man earned his keep by the sword as it appeared, he wouldn't stand to have his reactions constantly dulled. That took away any solutions that came immediately to mind but perhaps the reddened flesh in the fissures could be helped.

Nahayria was so caught up in examining the old wounds that she failed to note when her subject shrugged off the hazy dream her touch had spawned and opened his eyes. She was pulled out of her thoughts only when her wrist was suddenly caught up roughly in an iron grip and a deep voice snarled at her. "What the hell are you doing?"

Like most others here, I want to improve my writing, so any thoughts on why you don't like it could be really useful – feel free to send me a private message with your thoughts. Is the pacing too slow? Too cliché? Seriously, I won't bite, I promise!