Page 91 of Highlander’s Burning Touch

“Fingal, what is it?” cried his brother, but he sounded as if he were a long way away. Suddenly, everything was.

“Fingal, dinnae close yer eyes, stay awake, come on, brother….!”

But Fingal didn’t hear any further. He had already passed out.

* * *

“Och, dinnae make me have to do this, Fingal!” said Niven. Panic was rising in his throat, but he tried to drop it down as he hastily propped his brother up.

With a roll of the eyes, Fingal flopped, landing on the rolled blanket that Niven had placed beneath his head.

Without wasting a minute, Niven checked his vital signs and tapped him on the cheek.

“Mm,” Fingal gave a low groan, indicating he was at least alive, but then rolled over.

“Fingal, what happened!” yelled Niven, trying to get through to him. Fingal just groaned, but already, Niven could see.

A thick crimson tide was spreading from Fingal’s waist. Cradling his stomach, he turned and moaned.

“My God, Fingal, yer hurt, who did this to ye?” Niven asked, pulling his brother up sharply. His mind was racing fast as he tried to position Fingal in such a way that he wouldn’t lose any more blood than he had to, and at the same time, didn’t pass out.

Swiftly he worked, to raise Fingal’s head, but flatten his lower half, and quickly he got to grips with the wound gaping from his side.

Niven gasped. Undoubtedly it was bad, but from what he could see, nothing was sticking out of the wound. Satisfied. Niven reached for his spare plaid, tucked into his small knapsack. Taking his sword, Niven tore strips off, which he prepared to tuck around the incision.

“Fingal,” Niven cried, desperately, his head alive with panic, “Ye need to keep awake!”

He hovered above the opened wound with the woolen strips when something stopped him. The fibers of the fabric were too long and might get into the wound. Casting around for something else, he tugged at a linen handkerchief. That would do.

Carefully dressing the wound in the clean handkerchief, Niven then bound his brother up with a lattice-like fastening.

Slowly, Fingal groaned from the ground. “What on earth are ye doing to me, brother,” he murmured, raising his head from the makeshift pillow below, “I feel like a haggis being pushed into a ewe’s belly!”

Niven just gruffed. “Ye must be a bit better if ye can complain!” he said. He had finished tidying up his handiwork and now sat, right upside Fingal.

Fingal slowly took a moment to pull himself up, this time without bursting into a fresh bleed. And although it still looked incredibly sore, he managed to hoist himself up to a sitting position.

“So, brother, what happened to ye?” stared Niven, his warm eyes reaching into his brother’s own. Fingal’s green eyes rolled in his head, but this time it was deliberate.

“Och,” he began, then hesitated.

“MacLean?” said Niven. His brother looked at him oddly and just nodded.

“I’ll kill him,” murmured Niven, beneath his breath, “He didnae have any business…”

Niven’s words trailed off. His head was beset with emotions: so many different thoughts running through him.

“I thought…” he began. Instantly he felt ashamed.

Fingal had turned to look at him, an uneasy look in his green eyes. When Niven met his gaze, he cast it away. Now Niven was not sure.

He had been so suspicious of Fingal, even to the point of suspecting his involvement with the MacLean laird. But finding him injured had thrown him.

Had he been wrong?

“Tell me what happened, Fingal,” he said softly. His emotions were racing all around, but he worked hard to dampen it down. At the moment, his brother was in no fit state.

“Och, ye ken, the laird, he, he came after me – us – them,” Fingal faltered, his stumbling only confusing Niven more fully.