“I’ll fetch some cloth to stop the bleedin’,” Claire replied, already moving toward the cupboard.
Annabeth shook her head firmly. “Nay, I need yer help gettin’ him up first. He’s too heavy for me alone.” She struggled to adjust her grip, her arms trembling under the weight of the unconscious man. “Go call one of the lads from next door. They’ll help.”
“There’s no time for fetchin’ help, lass!” Claire snapped, hurrying back to her side. She placed a hand on Annabeth’s shoulder, her voice softening. “We’ll manage between us, aye? Just hold him steady.”
Annabeth frowned.
“Nay, this willnae do!” Annabeth protested, her breath hitching from the effort. “He needs to be fully on the bed if I’m to see to that wound proper.” She gripped the man’s tunic, her face flushed with exertion. “Please. Fetch the lads. We cannae lift him alone with yer back troubled.”
Claire hesitated, her brow furrowing with worry as she glanced between her daughter and the injured man.
“Och, fine,” she relented, moving toward the door. “But daenae ye let him bleed out while I’m away, ye hear me?” Her voice wavered with urgency, and she didn’t wait for a reply before rushing out.
Annabeth sagged slightly as her mother left, her fingers pressing against the cloth she set on the man’s wound to stem the flow of blood.
“Just hold on,” she murmured softly, more to herself than to him. The sight of his pale face and the deep gash on his side sent a pang through her chest, a mix of fear and determination. “Help’s comin’. Ye’ll nae die here. Not if I can help it.”
Annabeth pressed firmly against the wound, her hands trembling as blood seeped through the cloth she held. Her gaze drifted to the man’s face, seeking any sign of who he might be. He was tall, even slumped as he was, with broad shoulders that suggested strength.
His black hair was disheveled and damp, likely from sweat or blood, and a neatly trimmed beard framed his sharp jawline. Her eyes caught on a pale scar that ran along his right cheek, old and faded but unmistakably earned through violence.
“Saints preserve me,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
He wasn’t anyone she recognized from the village or the neighboring lands. That alone unsettled her—strangers weren’t common, especially ones arriving battered and bleeding.
The villagers have been murmuring about raiders attacking travelers and isolated farms. Could he be one of them?
The thought sent a chill through her, and she instinctively leaned back, though her hands remained pressed to his wound.
“What if he’s brought trouble to our very doorstep?” she murmured, her brow furrowing.
Her thoughts spiraled, imagining scenarios where he might awaken and turn violent. But then she glanced at the blood-soaked cloth in her hands, the life seeping out of him, and guilt prickled at her.
“If he were truly a raider, would he be ridin’ alone an’ so gravely wounded?” she reasoned aloud, trying to still her nerves.
Annabeth tightened her grip on the cloth, willing herself to focus. Whoever he was, he was bleeding to death in her care, and she couldn’t just let that happen.
“Ye’ve got to calm yerself, Annabeth,” she muttered though her voice quivered.
Her gaze flicked toward the door, longing for Claire to return with the lads. Every moment she was left alone with this man felt like an eternity, her unease growing with every ragged breath he took.
“Please, just stay alive,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Her free hand hovered near his face for a moment before she hesitantly brushed a lock of hair away from his brow. His features were striking even in their pale, battered state, and something about him tugged at her thoughts.
“Who are ye?” she murmured softly, her curiosity cutting through her fear.
But then her eyes returned to the scar on his cheek, a stark reminder of the violence he might be capable of.
“If ye’ve done harm to others, then I would be a fool to help ye,” she said under her breath though the words felt hollow.
Annabeth glanced toward the fireplace where the kettle hung empty. She needed to boil water and clean rags to properly tend to the wound, but she couldn’t risk letting go. A sense of helplessness crept over her as she felt the warm stickiness of his blood coating her fingers.
“What if I cannae stop the bleedin’?” she muttered, panic creeping into her voice. “What if…”
She shook her head, forcing the dark thoughts aside. Claire’s voice echoed faintly in her mind, reminding her of the healer’s oath they both lived by:
Do no harm, no matter who stands before ye.
