Her Broken Wings (Part Eight)
by Phoebe Lee Mathius
“For You have armed me with strength for the battle;
You have subdued under me
those who rose up against me.
You have also given me the necks of my enemies,
So that I destroyed those who hated me.”
Psalm 18:39-40
The water was cold…
…and dirty with the black blood of a Temptor.
Soon, the scimitar gleamed in the light of dawn. Holding it by its hilt, he wiped it dry. After it was sheathed, it folded into a dagger again. He smiled at the convenience, as he replaced his weapon in his belt.
He looked into the sky. It was still very dark.
She stirred.
He froze, not knowing what to expect.
****
Her vision was a swirling warp of colors, but for just a second. Eyelids, shooting up, she leapt up suddenly - her ears attentive to any foreign sound.
However, she had forgotten the harrowing night her body had endured the previous night. Too weak, she fell to the ground.
“Whoa there, filly.” He emerged from the shadows, hands raised and chuckling. She looked up, fear gripping her heart. “It’s quite alright. I’m the guy who saved you, remember?” he tried to assure her. She didn’t budge.
He squatted by her and held out his hand. “I’m Tyachar. Call me Ty.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Lady Shyne.” She responded curtly, and reached out to shake his hand. But she couldn’t. Her back was in putrid condition, and everything ached. She slumped to the ground, writhing in pain.
He watched her, a grim expression on his face. It would’ve been easier if she were dead, he thought. “Let me see, Milady,” he said to her quietly, “I want to help.”
She nodded, trembling in agony. She would’ve given anything that very moment to tear that pain away from her. Anything.
****
He held his breath. She was reeking of the stench of rotten blood. He had tried unraveling the makeshift bandages she had used to wrap around her wound but it had hurt her too much. Nevertheless, Shyne had done a pretty good job as the bandages had prevented serious infection.
He had made her a bitter drink, some pounded root and leaves served in a coconut shell. It was a concoction his grandmother had taught him, an instant anesthetic. He needed to stitch her wound well, and for that Shyne would need to be unconscious.
And that she was.
He watched her for a bit. Shyne looked better somewhat, sleeping. Calm and almost smiling. The sun was now high in the sky. Her cheeks and forehead were plastered in smudges of dried blood and mud. He scooped some water from the river and he began cleaning her face, and her arms.
He smiled. She was beautiful.
He carefully turned her, that her back would face him. He tore her shirt away as it was filthy. Taking a deep breath, he began work on the holes in her back. He first removed the dried leaves and straps of cloth that she had used to wrap her wound with. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He cleaned her entire back, taking care to use a special mixture when he came to an open wound, as that would act as an antiseptic cream, to prevent further infection. He had considered cutting off a bit of skin from her thigh to help with the stitching, but then decided against it, as the wounds were already beginning to close. The stitches would help it heal quicker; avoid more blood loss and contagion.
Snip.
His penknife cut off the last bit of thread. It was over. He tied around her body, a layer of leaves he’d collected and bits of cloth torn from his sleeves. He pulled his only other shirt over her head and turned her over again.
He stood and stretched. His joints ached from cramps. He shook himself and drew out his dagger. This time he clicked the hilt twice. It began to elongate into a bow. He stringed it and tested its elasticity. He started a fire by Shyne to keep wild beasts away. Then, grabbing a few arrows, he headed into the nearby woods.
When he returned, he found Shyne still asleep. But there was something cooking over the fire. He saw stalks of flowers and wild berries about. He stepped closer to the pot and took a quick whiff.
He smiled. Tea.
