To Live Again

5. Wrong Impressions

Sitting in a puddle on the floor with my hands tied behind my back to an uncomfortable support pole, with my poor foot outstretched, the sock just about hanging on by threads, seems to be the absolute cherry on the cake. Pathetic. It's about the only thing I understand about myself in this entire misadventure. I'm in a pathetic state and by process of elimination I can concur it's not going to go up from here.

My shoulders sag as I pull in a trembling breath, my lungs rattle a little, probably a sign of infection. By the throb in my head, and sickly sweat that runs down the nape of my neck and across my collar hones I'd wager that my short, second life is about to be very short-lived indeed. The irony almost makes me laugh, only my ribs and chest are too sore to even try.

The warrior who brought me to the captain's spacious tent spends most of his time guarding the flap of fabric that indicates the entrance. Except, when he enters to check the small fire in the centre, and ensure the embers still smoulder to an acceptable standard. The circular stone hearth is beside me, just to the left, and under a hole in the centre of the tent, where the stars glitter along with the points of terrific fir trees that might be as tall skyscrapers. Occasionally, when I have the strength to lift my neck I crane to see the stars and try to name the constellations to distract myself. My grandmother and I used to sit crouched at the head of her bed with curtains pulled back and watch the stars on a clear night. When I was older I realised it was just her way of distracting herself from worry about where my father was, and what ditch he drunkenly dived into. Oisín's little words about those passed on being our guiding lights come to mind and I take a fool's comfort in them. Maybe Grandma is giving me a little distraction.

A tear swells at the corner of my eye and plops down on the strewn rugs that carpet the floor and keep the damp earth at bay. My guard stares at me from the hearth, his brows furrowed and maybe that's conflict in his eyes, but I might be delirious. His skin is dark, like teak, and his eyes a bright green. Slender and athletic, like the rest of the Fae, I watch him move to a low table at the far side of the tent. There's a pallet covered in furs and a trestle filled with bottled jars and jugs. He opens a jug and pours the contents into a wooden cup, then bends to pick up a brownish tinged fur. He moves again, careful, almost keeping to the shadows until he's about an arms-length from me.

He kneels and offers me the cup. I shake my head. He scowls and retracts his hand.

"It's not poison," he clarifies and stretches the cup and it's sweet smelling contents toward me again. "It will help the fever."

"No thank you," I rasp, and firmly shake my head again. I don't trust them. I don't want any Fae-ish medicine, or whatever the hell it is.

He shrugs, stands, and drapes the fur over my shoulders. I immediately tense but the softness of the fur is the first welcoming sensation I've felt in so long. It feels like a hug and it starts the tears all over again. He seems startled by the reaction and takes a full step back. Embarrassment flushes through me and I wish I had the energy to care but I just want to curl into the folds of the blanket and give up.

Stay awake!

The voice booms in my head and I jolt, swearing at the intrusion. The sudden alertness has my guard swiftly exiting the tent with a concerned glance back.

"Leave me alone." I snarl and strain against the ropes that keep me pinned. "You did this."

Silence. Blissful quiet ensues and then I realise it's because he got his way. I'm awake. I make a disgusted sound at the back of my throat, and slouch against the pole again. How bored does a supernatural being have to get to be a pain in my ass? Can't a woman die in peace?