Broderick Elton Warfield, known as Brody to everyone but his mother, had never been a particularly religious man. Neither was he a man given to having his mind filled with fantasy. But the first time he laid eyes on the brown eyed beauty that opened the door to his refuge, he sent up a silent prayer to God almighty. And the only thing he could think as his legs dropped out from under him was that fate had plopped him down face to face with the most beautiful of enchantresses.
Of course, though always a man who enjoyed a good flirt with the ladies, Brody wasn't particularly at his best on this particular evening. Before he'd managed to drag himself to the mysterious woman's doorstep, his ship had been tossed about by the vicious waves, smashing it into the jagged rocks that ringed the island and sending him plummeting into the unforgiving black waters.
The waves had tossed him about to and fro, pulling him under and spitting him out again, plowing him into rocks and dragging him down over his head. But he'd fought the waters, and had finally, finally felt sand beneath his feet as he'd dragged himself from the water. And there, with a single candle in the window like a beacon of hope, had been the island castle, just across the sand.
He'd kept his eyes on that single light the whole time as he'd staggered, crawled, and dragged himself along the beach, blood seeping from wounds, his head pounding from what was sure to be a very nasty concussion. More than once he'd almost given up, almost simply laid his head in the sand and let the dark overpower him.
But he'd kept going, refusing to die so far from home, a lost sailor with the remains of his boat floating in the vast ocean. And he'd reached the light, reached the door that would leave to safety, to refuge. And when that door opened, when his eyes locked on a dark brown gaze, his fevered brain had said that maybe he'd be able to die happily now after all.
He burned with fever. That was Violet's main concern as she stripped off what remained of the man's shirt, ran a wet cloth over the various gouges and gashes that marred his tanned flesh. She'd managed to drag his tall, muscled frame into the sitting room, laying him out on the long, generous couch that normally she might've curled up in to read or daydream. Never had that piece of furniture been put to use in quite such a way as this.
Though his skin was hot to the touch, he shivered and shuddered as though freezing. With some pity, Violet left him for a moment to fetch a blanket, to add logs to the fire in the hearth. He was soaked to the bone, she noted, and only sighed once before she went about the mildly annoying task of undressing him. She did it as a doctor might, with cool eyes and steady hands.
At the moment, he was not a man, but a victim in need of help. Laying what remained of the clothes she'd removed from his body out before the fire, she covered him to the waist with the blanket, keeping her mind blank as she tended to his wounds, wiped the feverish sweat from his brow.
She did not know who this man was, or where he came from, nor did she care. Whoever he was, she would see to his hurts, would tend him until he was well enough to be on his feet again. And as soon as he was, she would send him back where he came from. But most of all, she would send him off her island. As long as he was here, after all, she was denied her solitude. And that just would not do.
It had been many years since she'd had human contact. Even though this human happened to be unconscious, he was human all the same, and therefore she was just as clueless as to what she would do when he actually woke up. Just because she'd closed off her heart didn't mean her heart didn't still beat, didn't mean she couldn't still feel the useless emotions of pity and compassion. As much as she tried to suppress them, they rose up in her now, had her pressing her cool palm to his fevered cheek, laying a wet cloth over his forehead.
"You've come a long way just to die now, sailor. If I can't help you live, I pray God takes you quickly." She murmured, brushing his wet, matted hair back from his eyes. Those eyes had been gray, she remembered, a misty, swirling gray. And in those eyes, during that moment he'd looked at her, she'd seen what she hoped to be strength enough to live through this.
Because he still shivered, she stood again, layered blankets on top of him, tucking them around him until he was all but cocooned in them. Using a bath towel, she dried his hair. It was just a bit too long, she noted, a shaggy fall of auburn curls.
With a small sigh, she brushed those curls back from his face, paused when the movement had his lashes fluttering a bit, lifting just a fraction so she could see only a slit of blurry gray.
"…Princess in the castle…" He murmured, and immediately fell back into sleep again as she blinked, stared at him for a moment.
"Well…There's nothing wrong with your voice, at least. Try to stay alive through the night, if you please." She said, patting his freshly bandaged soldier, and walked over to her chair.
And while he spent the night trying to stay alive, she spent it staying awake, watching over him as the storm raged on. Every now and then she would rise to soothe him as the fever peaked and sent him into confusing dreams, or wipe the sweat from him brow. And then she would go back and sit down, her tea growing cold beside her.
And when morning came, she sat there still, waiting for the sun to rise. Both of them had made it through the night. Time would soon tell if it would be enough.