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“Woah, whoa, whoa. You have a nasty cut on one side. Let’s try to sit up first, then we can assess standing up.” I crawl to his side, grabbing an arm to assist him as he lifts his head off the ground, my other hand sliding easily around his neck with the assistance of the mud generously coating each of my fingers. He screams, muffling the sound with clenched teeth before falling back down to the ground, the movement tugging me forward as my grip still holds firm on his arm.
I lift his shirt. Another thick cut runs from his hip to his ribs. Both his leg and stomach need to be cleaned and stitched, the muck already infiltrating both wounds. “Ok. We need to get to the road. Find some help,” I say matter-of-factly.
He’s completely covered in mud. The white of his eyes and a few specks of dark hair are the only contrast to the brown. He mutters to himself, too softly and jumbled to make out any words.
I move behind him. “I’m going to lift you, and you’re going to support yourself up with your arms. Can you do that, Roan?”
He nods, the first coherent gesture he’s given. A painful grunt rings through the air as I adjust him, but it seems his arms are in fine condition as they snap into place.
“Good. Good,” I say after assessing him again. “Do you feel dizzy?”
“Not… anymore.” His breathy, pained answer confirms an injury to a rib or two. “I think… I’ll live,” he chokes out.
A smile erupts on my face. I’m so happy he spoke that I hardly register his words. I want to hug him, the relief pushing me toward him. But I refrain. I don’t want to hurt him any more than he already is.
“Save your breath. You need to stand. I’m not strong enough to carry you out of here.” I look at him sharply, hoping the realization of my words is sinking in. “It’s going to hurt, but I need you to stand.”
His groan of protest doesn’t stop me from throwing his arm around my shoulder. “Open your eyes. If you’re going to pass out I need to know it,” I tell him. We rise together, my legs burning underneath his weight. His breathing is ragged, his face contorted with pain.
“Ok. Now we need to take a step. Roan, can you take a step for me?” He leans on his good leg, limping forward in jagged movements. “Good. Keep going. I know it hurts. But we have to get to the road.”
“I’m comfortable here, aren’t you?” He turns his head toward me, our noses almost touching as an exhausted head rests against my own. And I don’t know how he has the strength, but he smiles at me.
“It would be more comfortable if I didn’t have to carry you the whole way,” I counter, matching his smile with a grin of my own. He moves some weight from my shoulder, taking labored steps with a clumsy, strained stride.
“Thank you,” he croaks out as we walk.
“Nothing you wouldn’t do for me,” I reply, realizing that it’s not a lie.
I pretend I didn’t almost lose my mind, worrying I may never find him. Fear threads its bony fingers through me as I glance behind at what could have very easily been a tragedy.
“If my distance is correct, we could hit the main road before sunset. You need help— help I can’t give without the right supplies. I know it’s not what we planned, but we need to cut our losses and take our chances with Jaren’s madness. Who knows. Maybe he hates warm beds and hot food, and will stick to the forest instead. Or even better, maybe he already gave up.”
A low grunt escapes him, and I realize it’s a laugh. He’s trying to laugh.That’s a good sign.“It would seem your mental state is at least mostly intact,” I respond.
“Stop. Trying. To make. Me laugh,” he replies through ragged breaths.
“It sounds like you may have some bruised or broken ribs. While my rudimentary skills could stitch you up with some lightly mangled scars in your future, I can’t set or mend bones.” My brows knit together. “We need to find a doctor.”
“Let’s just… focus… on getting to the road,” he says. I nod, looping an arm around his waist.
“I saved your sword,” I say, pointing a few feet away. The only response I get is another deep grunt.I’ll take that as a thank you.
This stupid weapon has been a pointless relic these last few days, but I hold it now with a new found reverence, and lug the once beautifully polished weapon up and around my waist.
The road appears in the distance.
It takes most of the day like I thought, all but dragging a man twice my size through the forest. My joy is dampened by the angst of having to travel, who knows how much longer, completely exposed. We need cover, as quickly as possible. With Roan injured, the odds of walking away from a fight with both our lives still intact have dwindled dramatically.
I watch Roan grimace with every step he takes. He needs a bed. He needs food. His wounds need to be clean, stitched, and wrapped immediately. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of my face as we continue on our way.
A couple more hours following the wide, gravelly path, and an inn appears in the distance. It’s a decent size, as if this part of Haythen was once a thriving hub for travelers coming and going from Thenstra. The promise of a hot meal and soft bed make me want to run. But exhaustion and depletion keep me methodically moving one foot in front of the other. Roan also perks up at the sight, giving my aching legs a reprieve from carrying so much of his weight.
The door swings open, slamming against the back wall as I push it with a little too much gusto. It gets the attention of the keeper at least. My muscles are huffing out their last breath as I get Roan safely inside, sitting him on a bench beside the nearest table.
“I need a couple rooms. Preferably in the back and away from the normal traffic. Some clean clothes, clean wrappings for a wound, and whatever food you have that’s hot.” My words come out so fast I have to mentally make sure I covered all the main points.
The man looks Roan up and down before turning to me and doing the same. Dried mud flecks across his floor as our clothes bend and crack with each change of position, leaving a trail of dirt in our path. “I only have one room open,” he says, scowling at the mess we brought in.
