Eventually she reached his side and dropped gently to the ground beside him. His hands were resting on his lap and his shirtsleeves were rolled back to reveal corded and muscular forearms. She was surprised to notice large and intricate tattoos on the inside of each of his forearms. She hadn’t taken him to be a tattoo kind of person, judging him to be far too clean cut and buttoned up. But then again she didn’t really know him all.
The tattoos were unlike any she’d ever seen before, though being rather straight-laced herself, she was far from being an expert on the subject.
They were both incredibly intricate, a pair of dragons on his right arm and a pair of tigers on his left. Each pair of animals were intertwined – twisting and playing – so real that she could almost see them moving. On each arm, the tail of one dragon and one tiger wound around his wrists, like a pair of cuffs. But the strangest thing of all was the color of the tattoos. Silver and metallic, they shone on his pale skin, reflecting the light, almost as if someone had carved molds into his flesh before filling them with molten metal.
She touched his shoulder gently and whispered his name again.
He jolted awake violently and pried her hand off his shoulder, shoving her back viciously. She landed on her back with him pinning her down. A sword had materialized in his hand, with its edge tickling her throat.
Terrified by the viciousness of his attack, she stilled like a frightened rabbit confronted by an eagle. As she stared up into his eyes, she could see rational thought bubbling to the surface, breaking through the clear blue, and washing away baser instinct, like seashells being revealed in the wake of a retreating wave. Soon there was nothing but distress as he leapt away from her.
“I’m sorry Allyra. I’m so sorry.” His voice was anguished. “I thought… I’m used to being alone. I’m sorry.”
She raised a trembling hand to her throat and found just the slightest slickness – blood. She was bleeding. Not much, his blade had traced the thin line between life and death into her skin. He was watching her closely and when he saw the blood on her fingertips, his face contorted with pain, twisted by tortuous guilt.
“Let me see.” He said hoarsely and made to move towards her.
But the memory of his fingers digging into her wrist and the cold edge of his blade pushing into her skin was still too raw and it made the idea of him touching her again utterly abhorrent.
She held up her hand to stop him. “No!” She choked out, halting him abruptly.
He closed his eyes and turned away from her, but not before she caught a glimpse of raw, unfiltered torment.
For the first time since this madness began, Allyra felt a tear prick the edge of her eye. But she refused to cry, refused to give in. If she allowed a single tear to escape, the floodgates would open and once opened, they were next to impossible to close. And she didn’t look good crying – red eyes, snot…
She gasped, taking big, hungry gulps of air, trying to swallow the sob that threatened to emerge. An ocean of emotions swirled within her – anger, distrust, maybe even a generous sprinkling of hate. But they were all washed away by pity as she realized the extent of his guilt.
What kind of life would make a person react like that?
What kind of desperation would make him learn the steps to dance with death within the Walking Forest?
How many times had he faced death already?
“I’m fine.” She said, her voice still wobbly despite her best efforts. “You didn’t really hurt me.”
“Don’t.” He spat out, not looking at her. “Don’t make light of it.”
She might have forgiven him, but it was clear that he would carry it for much longer. Somehow, this had opened up past wounds for him and she was assaulted by arrow sharp feelings of remorse darting from him.
She didn’t know what to say, or how to lighten the mood – it had never been something she was particularly skilled at – she was liable to blurt inappropriate things out, making everything much, much worse. She ached for Jamie with his easy smile and quick jokes.
Searching desperately for a new line of conversation, her mind latched on to the last thought she’d had. She sat up and pointed to his bloodied shirt. “May I?” She asked gently, making a tentative and clumsy attempt to change the subject.
He turned to her slowly and searched her face. She kept her expression neutral, chasing away any trace of fear or anger. Finally he nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on her.
She lifted his shirt gently, not sure what she was expecting. There were two scars. One was older – stark white – standing out even against the pale canvas of his skin. It was torn and jagged, running horizontally across his rib cage, almost as if sharp teeth had ripped into him.
The other wound was newer – a long, thin cut passing from just below his arm, across his ribcage, all the way to his lower back. It intersected over the older scar and was as straight and clean as the other was uneven. It was still raised and red, but the edges were already knitting together neatly. She was no expert, but it appeared days or even weeks old rather than hours old. Astonished, she reached out and brushed her fingers lightly along its length. He tensed under her touch and let out a low hiss, but otherwise did nothing to stop her.
“How?” she asked. “I know I haven’t been asleep for a week.”
“I heal quickly.” He replied reluctantly.
She dropped his shirt, frustrated by his obscure answer. “No. I can understand quick recoveries, but this is a superhuman level of quickness.”
“You should rest, try to sleep. We need to get moving in a few hours.”
