A Splatter of Other #Wattys2015

VII

It doesn't happen though, because the fourth man suddenly punches one of my attackers in a bone shattering uppercut. He stumbles back, and one of the others rounds to take my possible saviour head on, though I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't just want me for himself. The mountain still has a solid hold on me and begins pulling me away, obviously intent to sneak away into the dark of the tunnels. I struggle as best I can, despite my ringing head, and manage to twist until I can bring my knee up right where his thick thighs meet. He double over in pain, loosening my grip to the point that I can get away. I stumble through the steam towards the sound of flesh being pummelled and stop short when I see Archer kneeling against one of the men's spines, hand in hair pulling his head back to expose the throat he currently had a wicked blade at. "Stop!" I gasp, horrified as he went to slash his throat open. Archer's head snaps up, a wild, glinting fury in his green eyes. I can't help but notice that he's cleaned up. His paint has been freshly painted up his arms, in red and white. His forehead has an intricate swirl of thin black and white, the triangles with the circle in the middle right in the centre. He's shaved, and the sun-browned skin, cleaned of red dust, looks smooth. He wears a vest like his fathers, with the undershirt and clearly more worn, and similar, less extravagant pants and boots, made for movement and comfort rather than impression. He glares up at me, but the heat softens slightly to worry.

"Fran? What the hell are you doing here?" I feel so relieved, I suddenly break down into tears. I may hate him, but I knew without a shadow of doubt that he'd protect me. He stopped the men from hurting me in more than just a physical way. "Your lip is bleeding," he snarls, his blade drawing blood, "did they violate you?"

I shake my head rapidly, blubbering, "N-no...they...they didn't g-get that f-far." I'm humiliated at being so weak and vulnerable in front of him, but I can't help it. "P-please don't k-kill him," I stutter, my chest heaving in panicked breaths. His eyes flicker down at the movement before skittering away.

"Fran, you'd better cover yourself up," he grits out between clenched teeth, I glance down in bewilderment, and my hands fly up to tug together the pieces of cloth to cover up my nearly fully exposed breasts.

My face flames red, but I repeat my request slightly stronger. "Don't kill him, please."

"Are you sure?" He growls, angered eyes locking back onto my face, "A man who takes a woman against her will doesn't deserve to live," and as if to emphasise his point he presses harder, and a thin trickle of blood drips to the ground, and I am reminded of another time he spilt blood, when he shot a man right in front of me. The man is begging Archer, I could tell by the desperation in his eyes, I didn't need to understand his words to know. "Say the word, Fran, and I slice him from ear to ear."

"Don't," I plead, my emotions slightly more controlled. "I-I couldn't live with that," and I couldn't, knowing I was directly responsible for someone else's death, no matter how much they may deserve it at the time. He stares hard at me for a moment longer, before pulling the other man's head further back and slamming it once, twice, into the rock below. Standing and shoving the blade back into his thigh sheath, he practically heaves me up with one arm and drags me out of the bathing area. He moves fast, almost too fast for my aching legs, and doesn't talk for several minutes, simply hauls me along at a pace to fast for my short legs. I try to protest, but my mouth feels like it's full of cotton, and a part of me is too scared to make any noise. I don't know how Archer navigates the corridors in pitch black, but he seems confident in his steps, neither stumbling nor backtracking. Several times I see lit up areas, but we pass all of these, and I become hopelessly disorientated. I realise that it would take months, perhaps years to have Durness fully mapped and memorised in my head. Suddenly we jerk to one side, and Archer momentarily releases me to move aside something. It must be a door of sorts, because once he does soft light appears and he directs me inside. I'm standing in a sizable, obviously natural cave that is surprisingly warm. A fireplace crackles to my right, the smoke funnelled up through the ceiling. To my left a bookshelf overflowing with tombs and books rests beside a desk that has a similarly haphazard pile of papers. A large, hand stitched map spreads above it. I move closer, recognising places like Arrow and Summerset, but little else. There's a large, low sitting bed, covered in furs and animals skins. I turn to Archer, suddenly fearing that he just brought me here to do what those men wanted to, but he's not looking at me, in fact, he's not even in the room. He stands in the entrance, hands clenching and unclenching periodically and he watches the fire flicker. Glower is probably a more appropriate term, as my eyes flicker over the clear signs of agitation, I'm confused; why is he so angry? Suddenly he shifts, snapping out of his daze and stalking towards me. I flinch back instinctively and see a flicker of agitation as he passes to grab something of the shelf. He turns back with a small box.