Hidden Spirit {Completed}

Chapter Twenty-Four: In the Interest of the Voerr

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Daybreak
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When Grey nudged against the back of her hand, she knew it was over.

The sky behind her shifted from grey to blue.

Her hands were shaking, cold, worried, confused.

And then she saw him.

She ran to his side. "Feren—"

He leaned almost too heavily against her side when it was offered. "Do not speak," he whispered hoarsely.

Her sleeve brushed up against his back and soon coated completely by the black paint that was his sticky blood. When she noticed a glob of clotted red against the skin of her hand she paused, nearly falling with him when his tired gait continued forward without her. She looked back down at her hand. It was the consistency of curdled milk.

Her stomach dropped. "Feren, you need a healer."

"No healer in Firica will treat someone like me," he coughed, the sudden constriction of his abdomen pushing the mostly-dried crimson further down his sides. "Leave me be."

His knees sank to the ground, though not in defeat. A hand touched his torn and tattered shirt, tearing across a slit until it exposed his entire chest.

Amelia was speechless.

Meanwhile Feren only seemed vaguely aware. He coughed; the sound was wet and coarse.

He wrapped the shreds of his darkened shirt around his hands before wiping one hand across his lower abdomen to swipe the free stream of blood there. Then his hand moved up the torn muscles. As if the claws had scratched twice — four deep streaks tore across his left breast. Similar marks left the flesh of his right abdomen open, though not as deep. Before Amelia could inspect thoroughly, he covered the lacerations with his hands. She'd never seen injuries to that extent —

Had he defeated it? Was it gone? Were they safe? Had Rosa really been —

As she watched him move, she paid close attention to the edges of the lacerations too see if they were even attempting to close themselves. She saw no change. They could not stay out there with his injuries as they were. He needed a healer. She thought briefly of the town physician, but he was right — they would never help him.

"I thought you were a healing being—" she said hurriedly, though by the sight of the blood bubbling down his pale skin, she knew he couldn't heal naturally right now even if he was.

His single-word explanation made it clear. "Hetinal."

Hetinal? Poison? By a blade of Rosa's, or something else? His stubborn hands did nothing. So she took the responsibility upon herself.

Before his objection could be heard, Amelia looped her arm under his. He was half-walked, half-pulled to the edge of the waters of the spring-fed pool. Ignoring the cold or the weight of her soaked skirts, she walked with him until the bare skin of his waist was licked at. He was grimacing against the feel, though water had not yet seeped into his bloody marks. It was already turning red and cloudy from lapping against his soiled pants.

At Amelia's fingertips there began to form the healing wisps of a spirit that refused to hold any real form, aside from a burst of light that expanded and shrank in the same second.

Its magic spread across his torn chest as Amelia slowly moved herself behind him. Her throat was tight with emotion. Her hands were not steady over his skin. She was afraid to speak for fear of her voice breaking. The threat was gone, she reminded herself. He would not have been there otherwise... much less, alive.