Chapter Four, Scene Three

“Avúlia!”  Though as calm and low as ever, anyone who knew Marnin could easily discern the alarm now polluting the stoic man’s voice.  Instantly recognizing something was amiss, Avúlia shot to her feet; Eolan and Mirra soon to follow.

Marnin appeared under the archway of the sitting room, a tall Asténter man with short cinnamon brown hair at his flank.  In Marnin’s arms lay a slighter man, whose sweat-soaked bangs fell in a tangle over his tightly shut eyes.

“Faernion?” Mirra gasped.  “Caenith!”

A look of horror crossed Avúlia’s face.  At once, she kicked aside the coffee table and motioned to the couch.  “Set him here.”  Marnin complied, the other man closely shadowing him.

“They shot him,” said Faernion, breathless.  “We caught on before they could fire any more.  I tried to…  I tried to staunch the blood.”  He balled his fist, concealing its sullied interior.  “He’s lost a lot.”

Avúlia took but a moment to assess the injury before she issued her orders.  “Mirra, go to that cupboard there and grab all the towels.  Eolan, go prepare the main bedroom.  Gather up my medical supplies.  Prepare a numbing tonic, and fetch the remaining poultice from Aewaean’s injury.”

Mirra vaulted over the second couch and tore open the cupboards of the kitchenette, while Eolan stalled, eyes locked onto the dark well oozing through the fabric pinned to Caenith’s side.

Faernion looked up.  “What happened to Aewaean?”

“Nevermind that now.”  Avúlia knelt down and gently touched the area around the arrow wound above Caenith’s hip, her fingers glistening with firelit blood.  The light pressure was enough to cause him to cry out.  She cast a sharp look at the motionless Eolan.  “Quickly, quickly.”

The boy blinked away his stupor and nodded, bolting out of the room.

Vivaereth appeared from the hall, nearly crashing into Eolan, who deftly slid past.  “What’s going on?” he asked, eyebrows arching as he saw the state of Avúlia’s newest guests.  “What happened?”

“We were attacked.”  Faernion braced himself against the mantle, reaching a hand behind him to catch the fire’s glowing heat.  “I don’t know who.  We had been so careful not to attract unwanted attention.  Valaena’s—”

“Where is Valaena?” Mirra demanded, unceremoniously depositing the bundle of towels at the foot of the couch.  Marnin snatched them up, wiping one across Caenith’s brow.

“She’s still out there.  Holding them down.  You need to—”

“You abandoned her?!” Mirra hissed.

“Caenith.”  Avúlia had produced a seamstress’ scissors and began to cut away the sodden fabric around the arrow.  “Caenith, can you hear me?”

“Long time… no see.  Avúlia.”  The cheerfulness he attempted to convey was choked away by the effort he made to control his breathing.  “somehow you look… diff-agh…”  His voice failed.

“We didn’t abandon her!” Faernion bristled, squaring off with Mirra .  “She told us to—”

Hearing none of his explanation, Mirra turned away, exasperated.  “I can’t believe you abandoned her!  You idiot!”  She pounded a fist against the fireplace masonry.  “Which way?”

When an answer was not provided soon enough, Mirra rounded on Faernion and reiterated with deadly deliberation, “Which way did you come from?”

Speechless under her bright orange gaze, Faernion pointed to the south-west; their course had been an angled slope up the mountain.

Her question answered, she broke eye contact with Faernion, her pupils now adrift in a frigid silver sea.  Yanking her coat off the hook by the front door, she stormed towards the rear exit.  “I’m going to find her.”

At this, Marnin stood and Vivaereth stepped forward.  “We’ll go with.”

The words had hardly left her cousin’s lips when she barked a refusal.  “No!  They can’t know you’re here.  If you show up, they’ll know Avúlia’s house is somewhere nearby, that is if they haven’t already found it.  I came with them, it’ll make sense if I go back.  Stay here.”

The noble Asténter meant to protest when Avúlia cut him off.  “Let her go.  She has a point.”  She was stroking Caenith’s tousled curls, holding a ruddy brown towel at his side.  Faernion sat close beside, towering protectively over the younger Asténter, watching Avúlia’s every move.  “I need you here to help with Caenith,” she continued.  “And besides, I need more healers, not more injured.”

Vivaereth conceded, his shoulders sagged.

A grim smirk tugged at Mirra’s lips.  “Alone I have the element of surprise.”  Snapping her fingers, her form began to shimmer like the horizon of a summer’s day, before she disappeared altogether.  “They won’t know what hit them.”  A tinge of malicious intent echoed in the disembodied voice.  With that there were footsteps in the back hallway, and the opening and closing of the door.

Moments after Mirra’s exit, Eolan shot through the doorway.  “It’s ready.  The kit and medicines are set out on the dresser.  I sterilized the suturing needle.”

“Good.”  Avúlia was about to issue another command when she realized that Faernion was already attempting to pick Caenith up again.  Snapping her fingers, she directed Vivaereth to help him.  Between them, they were able to carry him to the bedroom.  Eolan threw open the door, unable to do much more than stand aside and let them pass, his face pale.

Eolan attempted to follow them into the sick room but Avúlia turned to him with a sharp look.  “No, Eolan.”

“But—” he was conflicted, obedience battling with his want to help.

“No!  Stay back.”

Marnin appeared over Eolan and placed a firm hand on his tense shoulder, dispelling any will to ignore Avúlia’s orders.  The door slammed shut.

After a moment’s hesitation Eolan’s frame jerked forward.  “She’ll need me—”

“Stay,” Marnin lowed, his grip growing tighter.

Eolan looked up at the Asténter, his violet-blue eyes full of inner strife.  “But I…  But she—”  Soon he quieted, and his eyes fell to the floor.  There he found a bloody trail trekked all the way through the house.  Tracing its path with his gaze, he found a ghastly pool of it resting just inside the archway of the main room, where Marnin had paused, holding the wounded Asténter.

Eolan picked up one of his feet, a dark, oily footprint was left.  He’d unwittingly stepped in the blood himself.  A shudder ran through him; his eyes went blank.

Then Marnin felt another tug of his arm and released his grip as the boy drifted away, towards the sink of the kitchenette.  Wraith-like, he collected a bucket and went about filling it with water.  A rag was tossed in, and the boy returned carrying the burden.

He sank to his knees, face hollow, and applied the rag to the sanguine stains.  A bloody rose bloomed where he scrubbed, and it seemed that no matter how many times he wrung the rag, no matter how much water he poured on it, the rose only flourished and spread across the floor.

Silently, Marnin lowered himself, caring not about dirtying his robe.  The boy did not look at him, but Marnin could see that there were tears in his eyes.  “The blood,” he murmured, “reminds me of when my mother—” Eolan’s voice caught in his throat.  He bit his lip.

Marnin placed his hand over Eolan’s, which was scrubbing feverishly.  His strokes slowed and then stopped.

“Please,” said the Asténter.  “Let me.”

With much reluctance, Eolan allowed Marnin to take over.  The younger stood, releasing a shaky breath.  He was restless and agitated, his eye probing the room for something to do to make himself useful.

“You mustn’t push yourself so hard,” Marnin told him, the bloody rose waning under his work.  “You are young.  It is not your place to take so much upon yourself.”  He looked up to Eolan.

The boy chewed his lip; he looked away from Marnin’s gaze.  “I’m…” he whispered, “going to go check on Lady Aewaean…”  Eolan turned heel and fled into the back hallway, skirting past the blood trail.

Marnin watched him leave, and released a discontented sigh.