Chapter Text
Eight bodies lie in the clearing, and it is a miracle not a single one is theirs.
“Well,” Obi laughs darkly, slipping his knives back into their sheath, “that didn’t go how I thought it would.”
Her chest aches, as if her screams ran claws down her lungs, enraged at being denied escape. The endless pound of her heart adds to it, makes her pain stand out as if in bas relief. Its not the fear that keeps her from speaking, but the way her words have clung to her mouth in a confusing jumble, unable to sort themselves into what she needs to say: never do that again.
He turns to her, grin cocked, blood dripping down his face in runnels. A cut lays parallel to his old scar. It runs freely, as all facial wounds are wont, but even though she knows it needs nothing more serious than a good antiseptic and a stitch or two, it moves her.
“You’re wounded,” she tells him. You could have died, sticks in her mouth, not ready to be said.
He raises a hand to his brow, looks down at the blood on his fingers as they pull away. “So I am.”
His gaze drops to the rest of his body, spattered in blood both his and not, taking note of all the shallow cuts that mar his clothes and skin. There are far too many for her to be comfortable with, far too many that were a cut too close.
Obi shrugs, lips parting in a flash of teeth. “No great loss, Miss. Already have mark there anyway.”
Shirayuki mouth curves into a frown. Even if he won’t take it seriously, she is determined not to let him having a matching set.
She picks her way over bandit bodies – sent by one of the lords, just as they predicted – pressing one hand against a trees to steady herself –
“Miss!”
His warning comes a moment too late. She topples against the tree, and whatever had grabbed her ankle is pulling her down as it rises. Her cheek drags down the bark, burning as she hits the ground and sees –
A bandit, sword raised in a killing strike, and oh – this is why Obi is so diligent about checking his dead –
She flinches as the blade thrusts down, her eyes fluttering shut for a single moment, unable to face her own death –
It never comes. She blinks her eyes open just in time to see Obi’s face as the blade runs him through.
She expects to see surprise, to see fear, but instead – instead she sees resolve; she sees relief.
“Son of a –”
This bandit is dead before he can finish, throat grinning red as he falls to the frozen earth.
Obi straightens, staggers. Crimson blossoms around the cut in his jerkin.
“Obi,” she breathes.
He turns to her, smile still firmly in place. “No worries, Miss. I’ve had worse. All I need is –” his hands fumble his knives – “a good sit down –”
One of his blades tumbles to the ground. His body follows a moment later.
“Obi!” Her scream pierces the air, and she just manages to catch him before he hits the ground, her hands slipping on the blood covering his clothes.
She gets him up on his side, keeping his wound from the dirt and snow beneath them. Her bag is still well-stocked – they’re only an hour out from Lyrias, if that, and they had been courting trouble – so the cloths inside are clean and dry. She folds one against his back and the other against his front, and prays that the bleeding will stop.
He’s bleeding heavily but still conscious, clearly in pain but not hazy. “I’ll be fine, Miss,” he tells her, “just lay me down.”
“I’m the pharmacist here,” she reminds him, though she lays him on his back anyway, hoping her pressure will staunch the front and gravity will do for the back. The wound is not gushing, which is promising – at least no major vessel has been hit – and his blood is neither brackish in color nor rotten in scent. Gut wounds are deadly, but if luck carries them, his may not yet be lethal. It is at least not septic, but only time will tell.
She lifts one of her hands – she has antiseptic in her bag, and a few herbs he might chew to stave off infection – and it trembles like a leaf in the wind. It’s only them that she notices her whole body is shaking, the adrenaline of the moment wearing off and leaving her with only soul-gripping fear.
“Miss,” he says, too soft. He puts her hand back against the bandage, rubbing his thumb along the thin bones of her hand. “I’ll be all right.”
“You fought eight men by yourself,” she reminds him. When she closes her eyes she sees that still; a montage of the times he might have met his end had he only been a hair less skilled.
“I beat eight men.” He’s entirely too proud of that accomplishment, bleeding like he is. “Tell Mister that for me.”
“You can tell him yourself,” she claps back tightly. “And you let them get too close. Like you wanted them to hurt you.”
His eyes are hooded when he turns them to her. “Tactic,” he says, as if the word hurts. The shock of his wound must be wearing off. “Makes them drop their guard.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“I’m dangerous, Miss.”
She pulls the cloth from his stomach. Blood still oozes from the wound, but its becomes sluggish, thicker, nearly clotted. It will probably bleed anew if he moves much more than it takes to breathe, but it’s enough that she can clean it, maybe even close it with a few stitches.
She sets to work, letting silence hand between them. Her motions are steady, but she’s surprised to find that her fear has turned to anger. She is seething, livid that he has been so reckless, that for weeks she will probably dream of him bleeding from a thousand cuts, of the serene face he made as that blade ran him through. He’s lucky that this hasn’t killed him, and he will be even luckier if he makes it through –
“Don’t do that again,” she murmurs, taking a little too much pleasure in the way he hisses when she wipes the alcohol over his wound.
“Can’t help you’re always getting me into fights, M –”
“Not that.” She flicks her gaze toward his. “Don’t try to give your life for mine.”
“Miss –”
“I don’t want you to die for me, Obi.” She has never talked like this to him, so serious. “I can’t stand thinking that you might – that I might –” have to live without you. The thought is untenable. “Don’t do it again.”
He doesn’t answer for a long moment.
“Obi?” She glances up at his face, and it pale, too pale –
“It’s so cold, Miss,” he says, his voice too faint.
Her heart stills in her chest. He’s bleeding everywhere, she should have realized – he needs to be treated –
“Won’t you lay down with me?” he asks, “Just this once.”
His pack is on the other side of the clearing, but it’s in her hands in mere moments, her hand digging through its contents until she finds the small paper tubes he’s hidden in the lining.
Red for compromised, he told her this morning, Blue for aid.
He has flint as well, but her hands shake too much for such a delicate task. She picks up one, and tosses it straight into the fire.
The sound is deafening, so close. The tube whistles and pops, and luck sees a trail of smoke shooting skyward, breaking apart in a shower of unmistakable sparks. She just has to hope Makiri’s men are watching.
Shirayuki hurries to Obi’s side, ears ringing as she shouts, “They’ll be here soon. People are coming.”
It’s a lie, they both know, it’ll be an hour at best but – he can hold on that long, surely. She wishes they had something besides snow to lay in, but they had not foreseen being out long enough to use bedrolls or tents.
“I’m cold, Miss.” His hands come out to cover hers. “Lay next to me.”
“You have to fight it, Obi,” she tells him. “That’s the shock talking.”
“I will,” he promises, his hands pulling weekly at hers. “But it would be easier if I was warm.” His eyelids flutter as he looks up at her. “You’re so warm, Miss.”
“A-alright.” She winces as she lays on the cold ground beside him, but even through his coat, he’s warm. “But stay with me. You can’t fall asleep, Obi.”
His eyes are hardly more than a narrow sliver of gold when she peers up at him. “No, no,” he agrees, his fingers gently brushing over the arch of her cheekbones. “No sleeping.”
His palm cups her chin, but there’s none of his gentle strength in it. It’s like she’s being held by smoke rather than flesh.
“Why would I let you go,” he whispers, “when all I ever want is to have you closer?”
His hand drops, laying heavy on her shoulder, his eyes rolling back in his head –
“Obi!” she screams, bolting upright. “Obi, get up!”
A thready pulse beats under her fingertips. He’s alive, alive but –
She can’t lose him. Not like this. She will not trade her life for his.
But only time will tell.