The rain had not relented throughout the night. And while the hollowed-out tree had been chosen wisely for its dry spot at the top of a gentle slope, the dampness was beginning to permeate everything. The woman's hair clung to her cheeks and neck like tiny tentacles, and the pages of the journal that lay open near her hand were beginning to curl upwards as they filled with moisture.
She stirred lazily, grunting from where she sat with her back against the side of the trunk. A deep and frustrated sigh burst from her lips, and she forced her turquoise eyes open to examine the shadowy figure laying less than a foot away.
She had taken it upon herself to disrobe him to his small-clothes. His trousers were a loss, the fabric having been sliced from ankle to waist to free his wounded leg. The belt and shirt, however, had been folded and placed aside as respectfully as possible, until time revealed whether he would be a recovering patient or a corpse. Even with most of his skin bare, he was still sweating profusely, and she had bathed his uninjured limbs with cool water through the night. He did not speak, either because he couldn't, or because he chose not to. She had offered him water and weakened ale, but he took nothing.
Her own exhaustion was beginning to take its toll, making her eyelids grow heavy, and her chin bobbed down onto her chest. Immediately, her head sprang up again, her eyes popping open. She slapped her own cheeks sharply, and then crawled forward to inspect the man in the thin, grey light of foredawn.
His leg was grotesquely swollen. She expected nothing less, but expectation did little to ease the sympathetic ache that throbbed in her chest. The pale skin was beginning to darken with bruising as the venom fought its way through his flesh. Her slender fingers touched the poultice she had applied, delicately adjusting it over the bite wound. "Come now," she whispered. "You must fight. You're a strong fellow, look at you. Probably have a wife and children back home, worried sick. You can't let them down, aye?"
Her eyes turned down to his face. Framed by a dark, bushy beard, his lips hung slightly open. His face was like a death-mask, and her heart thudded heavily with dread at the sight of it. She swallowed hard against a dry throat, and moved her gaze to his chest. Weakly, slowly, it was still rising and falling. She stared harder, willing it to keep doing so.
"This isn't your time to go," she whispered on, speaking to ears that seemed deaf. Speaking words that she knew were impotent and pointless. But somehow, it felt better to say rebellious, audacious things, than to give up just yet. "You're going to be just fine." Her hand wandered aimlessly, looking for something useful to do. It found his own hand, limp and clammy on the bare dirt floor. She held his fingers tightly. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."
A peal of thunder shook the forest and rumbled the earth beneath them. "You see?" she said, smirking despite the weariness that wooed her eyes towards closing again. "Even the sky is angry. The whole wood is fighting for you. The bees gave their honey, the trees and bushes gave their bark and their leaves." A finger touched the poultice again. She could feel the heat of the swollen leg radiating through the damp linen. "We're all on your side."
A sudden yawn stretched her mouth wide. She pulled her knees up and leaned her head down onto them, with his hand still clutched in hers.
