"Right. Of course this would happen tonight," she muttered softly, "I shouldn't even be surprised by this point."
All she'd wanted was a simple night with her tea, her book and her cat. That's all. Just a moment to forget about everything and find some peace. Instead, the universe had delivered an armed, bleeding stranger to her doorstep during the worst storm in months.
Clearly, the universe has a twisted sense of humor. At least where she was concerned.
A violent gust rattled the cottage, slamming the open door against the wall. The impact sent her bookshelves trembling, threatening to topple her most treasured possessions. Rain swept across the threshold in sheets, cold air battling the warmth of her sanctuary.
"Damn it all." She hissed softly.
Blade in hand, she quickly darted around the fallen figure and pressed her back against the door, using her weight to force it shut against the gale. The latch caught with a decisive click that felt like the closing of a trap. She was now sealed inside—with him.
Amriel turned, her shoulders pressed against the rough wood, surveying what remained of her peaceful evening. Her heart shot back into her throat as the kettle she'd set to boil began to scream for attention, its whistle rising to a frantic pitch.
"Still jumping at rabbits," She muttered softly, shaking her head when she quickly realised where the sound was coming from.
Priorities, Riel. One crisis at a time.
The thought sounded unnervingly like her mother's voice—pragmatic, unflinching, and maddeningly right.
Kettle first, or she wouldn't be able to concentrate, then bleeding man.
Cautiously, she edged back around the prone figure, keeping her knife ready, never quite turning her back on him. The kettle's urgent whistle set her teeth on edge as she lifted it from the hook, steam hissing as she moved it to the stone hearth's edge.
From the corner of her eye, she caught an unexpected movement—Meeko.
The massive forest cat padded toward the stranger with deliberate steps, silver eyes narrowed in... curiosity? Not the bristling, snarling Meeko she'd expected.
In the four years she'd known him, he tolerated exactly three humans: herself, Niamh, and Simon—and the latter two only after years of bribery. Everyone else received bared teeth at best, drawn blood at worst. Yet here he was, nose twitching as he circled the unconscious stranger, his posture more inquisitive than defensive.
"What in all the hells is going on?" she murmured.
Meeko's ear flicked in her direction, acknowledging her voice without deigning to answer. He lowered his head to sniff at the stranger's damp cloak, whiskers twitching with interest.
The firelight revealed more of the man's features now—tall and lean beneath his sodden cloak. Beneath were the outlines of duel swords strapped across his back. His dark hair plastered against his skull, and his tan skin was turning ashen. Blood loss.
A knot formed in Amriel's throat as she weighed her options. This man was clearly dangerous—armed, foreign, appearing during a storm that coincided with strange occurrences in the forest. But he was also badly wounded and in need of her help.
To help him, however, meant moving him. Which meant touching him. Which meant making herself vulnerable.
In that moment, Meeko made his way to her side and gently buffeted his head against her hip, in a way that came across as a reassurance that he would be there for her. When she looked down at him, the forest cat merely blinked at her, serene and unperturbed.
"Alright, fine. I guess it's time to take a look at these wounds." She said, her mind finally made up, though she only wished she felt as confident as she thought she sounded.
If she was going to turn him over both the cloak and the duel swords strapped to his back had to be removed. Amriel knelt beside the man and set her blade aside, but not so far that she could reach it quickly if she required it.
As she worked at the clasp, her mind cataloged observations with clinical precision, just as her mother had taught her.
"A healer's eyes are her first and most important tools," Nythia had said, demonstrating how to assess a patient before ever laying hands on them. "Look for the color of the skin, the pattern of breathing, the tension in the muscles. They will tell you more than the patient ever will."
His breathing was uneven but persistent. Good sign. Skin was clammy but not ice-cold. Another point in his favor. The blood from his wounds, while concerning, wasn't pumping rhythmically, suggesting no major arteries were compromised. Three small mercies.
The sodden cloak fell away, revealing the duel swords. The hilts above the scabbards were plain but of exceptional craftsmanship. Even before she felt their weight, she knew these blades would be perfectly balanced. These were not the weapons of some hedge knight or common foot soldier, rather she suspected they were made specifically for this warrior and, when wielded, became extensions of his body.
Removing them almost felt like removing a limb. "Sorry," she murmured, fingers working at the rain-soaked leather straps securing his swords. Somehow this felt personal. Almost intimate. "But I'll be keeping this safe until we determine if you're friend or foe."
The harness gave way, allowing her to slide the scabbards free. Rising, she set them carefully against the far wall, well out of his reach.
Under her cot she found the bedroll she used when the cottage felt too small and needed to spend a night under the stars. The bedding was old and worn, but at least it was clean and it would serve to get him off the hard, cold flagstones, at least until the morning when she could ask Simon to help move him onto her sleeping cot.
She unrolled the bedroll beside the man where he lay quietly. With a deep Bracing herself, Amriel gripped his shoulders and rolled him toward the bedroll. His body was deadweight, resistant to movement. A grunt escaped her lips as muscles strained, sweat beading on her forehead despite the chill air.
"Come on," she ground out between clenched teeth. "Work with me here."
As if in response, his body suddenly shifted, momentum carrying him onto the bedroll with unexpected ease. The movement must have jostled his wounds for a sharp cry tore from his throat, though his eyes remained closed. The sound was raw, visceral, sending a surge of sympathy through her that surprised her with its intensity.
Pain like that couldn't be feigned.
As she rocked back onto her heels, the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, rushed forth in one great exhale.
The man now lay sprawled on her bedroll, face upturned to the firelight and she could see him clearly for the first time. His features were rather striking—bronze skin several shades darker than her own, sharp cheekbones, a strong, defined jaw, covered in days-old stubble growth. Dark hair, nearly black, clung to his forehead in damp tendrils.
The cuts across his temple and cheeks, while deep and likely to leave him with scars, were not the most concerning injury. At least not when compared to what she could see through his armour.
With a shake of her head, she forced her gaze away from his face, to assess his body with clinical detachment.
Deep gouges scored the hardened leather armor across his chest and shoulders—claw marks too large for any natural predator she knew. Clearly, his armour had presented his opponent a decent challenge. But fine and well crafted as it was, it hadn't been enough to stop the two arrows that were embedded in his flesh beneath—both on his left, one in his shoulder the other in his gut just below his breast bone.
The shafts had been snapped off just above the level of his armor leaving jagged stumps that poked out.
Her stomach sank at the sight. The one in his gut was, in all likelihood, fatal if it had struck anything vital. But she had to at least try.
"Well shit," She sighed and her eyes flickered over his face, "Not only did you interrupt my peace, you had to do it with arrow wounds."
Arrow wounds could be vicious things, and often proved particularly troublesome for healers. There was the difficulty of the removal, especially if they were embedded in bone or barbed, and the risk of infection was high, which increased the chances of death.
"That armour had to come off," She muttered aloud.
After a few choice curse words as her fingers slipped on the armor's buckles, slick with blood and rain, she grabbed her bone handled knife from where it rested. Its edge, that she kept well honed, glinted in the firelight before it sliced through the leather straps that held the armour in place and the opened up the blood soaked undershirt beneath.
Her lip caught between her teeth as she carefully peeled the layers back to fully reveal the wounds. This kind of damage should have already killed him. Yet his breathing remained steady, if shallow. The bluish tinge to his lips suggested blood loss and cold were taking their toll. Without immediate help, he wouldn't see dawn.
A pang of worry tightened her chest, more acute than she'd expected. It wasn't just clinical concern for a patient—it was something deeper, a conviction that his survival mattered beyond simple compassion. She didn't understand why, but the feeling was undeniable.
"Alright, time to get those arrows out."
Saying it aloud made it seem almost manageable.
She could do this. She had to.
Pushing to her feet, Amriel gathered her supplies—clean cloths, her precious herbs, and the flask of scotch Simon had left behind during his last visit. "For emergencies," he'd said with a wink.
"This counts," she muttered dryly, surprised she could still find humor in such a dire situation.
As she arranged these implements beside the bedroll, a strange calm settled over her. This was familiar territory. Not the severity of the wound, perhaps, but the act of healing itself. Her mother's words returned to her;
"When death comes calling, Amriel, you stand between it and your patient. Not with fear, not with doubt, but with the certainty that every life is a battle worth fighting. Some you will lose. But never for lack of trying."
She glanced once more at the stranger's face, so still it might have been carved from stone if not for the painful rise and fall of his chest. Whoever he was, whatever had brought him to her door on this storm-wracked night, he had placed his life in her hands—knowingly or not.
"I don't even know your name," she said softly, dipping a cloth into warm water. "But I'll do what I can. That's a promise."
Meeko's eyes, reflecting in the glow of the fire like great pools of silver moonlight, peered at her from where he'd curled up by the fire, near the stranger's head. His purrs rumbled loudly, a deeply calming and grounding sound.
Beyond the cottage walls, the storm continued its assault, branches cracking like bones beneath its fury. But inside, a different battle was beginning—quieter, more desperate, but no less fierce. A battle Amriel was determined not to lose.
"First, let's make sure you stay asleep." She said, picking up the jar of Gentle Sleep she'd made earlier. "You'll thank me for it later."
Gently, she pried his mouth open and placed the paste beneath his tongue, ensuring it wouldn't be dislodged.
If you survive, she added silently, the thought bringing a tightness to her chest she refused to examine.
While she waited for the herb to take effect, Amriel ran each tool through the flames dancing inside the hearth, watching as the fire licked at the metal. The ritual was as much for her benefit as for sterilization; it centered her, reminded her of her purpose. Heat radiated against her face, warming skin that felt too tight, too cold with apprehension.
Get it together, Riel, she chided herself and set her jaw. Death wasn't welcome here tonight.