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ng I’ve been out.
All I know is it must’ve been bad, if the heady shroud of incense and candles are anything to go by.
Chepi reaches me first. But then I’m pretty sure she’s been there all along. Never really left. Her exhausted, tear-streaked face hovers over mine as one hand fusses at my hair, smoothing it off my forehead, while the other clutches an overused tissue she presses hard to her chest. Murmuring soft words of gratitude and relief—wanting me to know how much she loves me, how much she prayed for me, that Jolon’s spirit stood by me—until Leftfoot pushes her aside and stands in her place.
His own ministrations not nearly as loving, he says, “I thought for sure you were dead on arrival.”
I start to speak, but my mouth is so dry I have to force my tongue to separate from my teeth. “So, these are funeral candles?” I croak, my voice hoarse, underused.
“You can’t afford to make jokes.” He frowns. “You have no idea just how bad off you are. But soon, the medicinal herbs I gave you to numb your pain will wear off, and you’ll be newly enlightened.”
I slide my eyes shut, straining to remember exactly how I got here. My mind requiring a handful of seconds to warm up, wake up, and piece together the hazy remnants of a distant memory. And a moment later, when the scene comes barreling toward me in its hideously detailed entirety, I’m left wishing I’d been smart enough to leave it alone.
The hellish encounter gleefully unfolds in my head, lingering over the scene where Daire had to physically drag me out of the Lowerworld. Insistently rewinding it again and again, if only to punish me.
Humiliated doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Mortified doesn’t work either.
There’s not a single word I can think of that accurately states how I feel.
Though the question remains: Is she here?
I try to sit up, desperate to see her. Stopped by the stabbing pain in my side, along with Leftfoot’s hand pushing me back toward the mattress.
“Where is she?” I force the question between gritted teeth. Leftfoot was right—the herbs are starting to fade.
In an instant, Daire is beside me. Her hair disheveled and wind-tossed. Her clothes filthy and bloodstained. And yet, beneath the layers of dirt, her cheeks are flushed pink, her eyes bright and hopeful, and to me, she’s never been more beautiful. I’ve never been more happy to see her.
“I’m here—I’m always here,” she whispers, words intended only for my ears.
But when she bites down on her lip and sweeps a cautious hand over my cheek, I’m quick to close my eyes and turn away. Imagining how repugnant I must look to her.
Battered.
Broken.
Defeated and weak.
Someone she was forced to rescue.
A far cry from the hero I was striving to be.
And it’s not like Leftfoot has any interest in sparing my ego. He’s made it all too clear what he thinks of my pride.
“How many times will I have to patch you up before there’s nothing left to patch?” He continues to mutter under his breath as he motions for Chay to help prop me up.
I steel myself against the pain, but mostly I’m embarrassed for Daire to see me this way.
“We need to remove your shirt,” Leftfoot commands. “Or what’s left of it, anyway. You were in such bad shape when they brought you in, all I could do was a quick patch job. I was afraid anything more would send you over the edge. But now that you’re on the mend, it’s time to put you back together again.” Responding to my hesitation, the furtive look I shoot Daire, he says, “She’s been here all along. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.”
Daire flushes pink and looks the other way, as Leftfoot wads up a red bandanna he pulls from a drawer, shoves it toward me, and says, “Here—bite down on this. You’re gonna need it.”
I turn my cheek in refusal. My gaze drifting from Chay, to Chepi, to the back of Daire’s head, before traveling back to Leftfoot again. Nothing more emasculating than a roomful of elders judging me in front of my girlfriend. The very least I can do is tough it out and reject the pacifier.
“Your call,” Leftfoot says, never one to force me, despite how foolish he deems my behavior. “You’re lucky it’s only a dislocation and not a break. Breaks take longer to heal.” He places one hand on my shoulder, as the other grabs at my arm. Muttering one of his healing songs under his breath, he pushes with a great deal of strength, wrenching the joint back into place.
The sudden jerk of bone meeting bone resulting in a pain so staggering, I force myself to focus on the niche full of santos on the other side of the room. Biting back the scream that crowds my throat, I fight like hell not to pass out.
