Beneath Starlit Skies

3

She weaves through the forestry, over and around roots and tree branches, following what seems like an endless road of red, with each step filling her heart further with a sinking dread.

There is a growing tension inside and around her.

Her head feels like it's spiralling, clouding, almost as if it were trying to disassociate from her fear. Her mind is quiet. Too quiet. Too calm. In her mind she is as calm as a cloudless starry night.

(High above are strong gales.)

Her small body pulses with adrenaline, almost buzzing with it. Her heart is pounding, her eyes darting to and from every shaded corner, twitching at the softest sound or slightest movement.

There is a sudden rustling that sends a sharp jolt scurrying down her spine and she stills, breath hitching as a gasp catches in her throat.

Something is nearby. Or rather, someone.

Crouching low, she begins to crawl beneath the cover of the surrounding bushes and leaves. She peeks through the crack of the green foliage and gasps sharply.

Propped against a tree, lying sprawled around its base is a man in dark armour. From her hiding place, she can see his hair is light and red, close to blond but not quite, gleaming almost like gold in the sun; and it is splayed about, caught messily in the shrubbery around him.

The man lies still, unmoving, almost as though frozen in time—a beauty immortalized.

She stares in horrified fascination, her eyes fixating on the savage marks carved into his neck. The skin is torn and bleeding profusely. She winces, cringing backwards and a twig snaps beneath her. The man's head jerks suddenly towards her, molten eyes closing in dangerously onto her small figure, staring straight into her own eyes. For a moment, she can think only of the pure loathing burning in them. His lips curl into a sneer as he snarls at her in a language she doesn't know then groans in agony as he aggravates his wounds.

Well, then.

Pressing her lips into a firm line, she glares back at him and pays his distainful words little heed. She doesn't understand them. Therefore, she has no need to obey them.

That is how it works, right?

Right, she affirms to herself.

He is in no state to resist her when she approaches and begins looking him over.

Asides from the most obvious of wounds, she observes that his black armour is spiked, cracked, and various bits of it are poking into his side. The armour must be uncomfortable to be lying in.

I'll start there, she says to herself and begins reaching for the broken chest plate. He attempts to stop her but she merely swats his hands away. He says something in a scathing voice and she shushes him. The man's expression at being shushed is almost comical. She grins cheekily and he scowls darkly, muttering under his breath.

She is no threat to him and he realizes that. Now, she is just a known annoyance. Too tired to protest her, the man resigns and settles with glaring at her instead.

For a while, she struggles with the heavy armour. Once she has peeled off all of the pieces of the fractured garment, she pushes it aside and begins examining his wounds.

She wonders once again how on earth this man is alive.

There's something off about him in a way she cannot seem to put into words, a whisper in the back of her mind just barely heard like a silent echo.

(Dangerous, dangerous, is he... an instinct whispers, not a man but a maia...)

She gently pats him on the shoulder as if to thank him for letting her help him; and stands, motioning for him to stay put despite him not going anywhere with his current wounds.