Page 48 of The Wind and the Wild (The Keepers of Faerie #1)

“

W ill you tell me how?” I whisper, pressing my finger ever so gently beside one of the angry half-healed wounds. One has reopened slightly, where the woman grabbed him, though the bleeding has already slowed to nothing.

He lets out a long whisper of a sigh, and a few leaves skitter across the floorboards, disturbing the kittens. “ Must I?”

“ You must do nothing in particular,” I tell him. “ Are these healing?”

He nods tiredly, hair slipping over his shoulder to cover the things on his chest that will certainly turn to scars.

Didn’t he tell me my own injury did not heal well? And yet he is here, hiding.

Carefully, I make a motion for him to put his back to me, my hands drifting against his sides, aware in a small part of my mind that I have my hands on a very strange faerie man with little of his clothing to cover him.

He is very much human in appearance. Every so often, when he shifts, I nearly believe I see something beneath the surface of his skin, like vines or veins of rock, as if he is not made from the same things underneath as I am.

Tenderly, he turns, leaning against the pillows, hands bracing against the old mattress.

Moving aside the remnants of the bandages, I see what has him in pain.

Claw marks continue along his back and down his spine in a way I’m shocked lets him stand so straight.

One is a much angrier shade of crimson than the others, a large blister of pale skin as if something is caught beneath.

Given the extent of the injuries and how difficult it would be for him to keep such a wound clean at his middle back, I wouldn’t be surprised.

“ My family is a violent one,” he murmurs, voice so soft that the crackle of the fire mostly overwhelms it.

“ Not to one another or to the helpless, but we are a warring kin. We, specifically, among other families, are those you think of who keep the edge of Faerie safe. The hounds are becoming worse and worse these centuries. We often have many scuffles with them. ’Tis our nature to clash.

We have been doing so since long before your village existed and will do so long after they are no longer angry at you. ”

Such explains the injuries, or at least hints at an explanation, but not the rest. Not why he is here. Alone.

“ I am not much of a fighter,” he whispers.

Pain seeps into his voice. I wish to tell him that even if such a thing were true—he seems rather dangerous to me—it would be nothing to be ashamed of.

But I know little of their ways, of his family or much of the Gentry to begin with, so I don’t speak.

“ I realize I am an embarrassment to my kin. My sister is quite competent. She is fierce. My father is proud. As am I.”

I hear it in his tone, a strange hint to his voice I’ve never before grasped. Love, I suppose. He speaks of her warmly as the hearth and does not sound jealous atop it.

“ Is she frightening?” I ask softly, careful not to break the spell of his words.

He gives a weak chuckle. “ To you, I am certain. Not to me.”

I nod, my thumb absently rubbing a soothing pattern on a part of his uninjured spine. His skin feels paper-thin, though I believe it tough as iron, and much warmer than expected—though I should have guessed from the comforting nature of his hands.

“ My father is a strong creature,” he says, voice softer, drifting away, back to the place he once lived where bluebells grew around the walls.

“ As is my sister. I am not. Do you know how much pride it takes for a house of the Gentry to grow? Weak, shriveled little things must be snipped like withered buds.”

He picks at one of the jars of salves I’ve dumped nearby. A horrifying picture of the situation begins taking place in my mind. “ They—”

“ No,” he says before I can get the words out. “ They did not discard me.”

He is quiet for so long I’m forced to ask, “ Then what happened?”

A long sigh follows, and I believe the only reason he is telling me is because I sit with his back to me, my hands resting ever so carefully against his lower ribs. We do not have to look face to face, not right now.

“ I have lost to... monsters on many an occasion. I have no mind for such strategy, and my sister has often endangered herself in attempts to aid me. My father will not set me aside. Such a thing would be a disgrace. So I took the opportunity—I set myself aside.”

He gives a weak flip of his hand toward his wounds, and I believe I understand.

He clarifies, “ It would be easy enough to believe those hounds carried off a body. I stumbled across this library, and it was a good-enough place to heal. Evidently, I am not doing such a fair job of it.”

“ You can’t be expected to,” I tell him, spinning the new information around in my thoughts. “ So, your father and sister think you’re... dead?”

I cannot imagine a situation in which a parent or sibling would prefer such a thing. I do not know his relationship with the two, but he seems to love them both. I cannot wrap my thoughts about it all.

“ I should hope,” he murmurs finally. “ I am finished being a burden to them. Abandoning them under other circumstances would be a shame to them. There is no shame in kin who die in defense of their lands.”

I do not wish to argue, to make him any more upset than the soft tone of his voice tells me he is, but I cannot help but say, “ I think if I had a child, I’d rather know they’re alive over anything.”

“ Perhaps,” he agrees. “ But such things will fade in time. For me... Well, many fae live solitary lives. ’Tis not so bad a thing.”

It is for you. If I try, I can bring myself to understand that perhaps injured and alone, he thought this was the correct decision. That, obviously unwell still, he does not wish to return home if his family are greatly concerned with their pride and strength.

But I cannot abide such a thing, and if his father is as good a man as he claims, Aidyn should not either.

Under these circumstances, I don’t believe I can convince him. Touching near the angry red wound along his spine, I tell him, “ It looks as if something is caught beneath the skin. You may be correct about the infection.”

His head twitches. “ That will kill me.”

My heart jumps into my throat. “ What?”

“ If it is a bit of their claws or teeth—I cannot rightly remember exactly what happened—it will poison me slowly. They are deadly creatures, even slaughtered.”

“ I can take it out,” I say immediately, without consideration. “ I do not have a weak stomach.”

He is quiet, face turned slightly toward the fire. I force myself not to interrupt whatever he is factoring.

Finally, I mumble, “ You cannot tell me this will kill you and then expect me to do nothing about it.”

He doesn’t wish to die, does he?

Letting out a long sigh, he simply rests his head between his knees. Glancing at the little jars of salves and herbs, I consider what best I can use to ensure any infection doesn’t worsen. I am not a healer, though I have tended to minor things, as has anyone who lives in a small village.

“ Did you drink all of that wine you found?”

He makes a noncommittal noise.

He may be miserable, but he’s going to answer my questions. “ Aidyn.”

“ No, it was awful.”

I huff a small laugh, glancing about the room. “ Where is it? Do I have to walk down to the cellar?”

After a moment, he points to the windowsill, where his other items are collected.

I squint at it, head hurting, and spy a tiny decorative bottle behind a few old candlestick holders.

Walking on my knees to spare my ankle, I use one of the clean cloths as a cover to pick up the dusty glass.

Intricate designs of grapes and vines swirl across the glass; I’ve never seen the like. I can admire it later.

Again, I glance at the dusty old box on his shelf. “ What do you have in your little box here?”

He peeks briefly over his shoulder. “ Many of the books downstairs had dropped leaflets. They were rotting on the floor. I... collected a few I like—information on creatures I’ve not heard of, different plants, notes on weather changes in Faerie. Such things as that.”

For a moment, I’m disappointed it holds no cure for his wounds, no special magic only available to the fair folk, but I cannot help the affectionate way my heart squeezes. I crawl back to him, old bottle of wine wrapped in the cloth.

“ I’m going to use this so nothing else gets into the wound,” I tell him, sniffing the contents and being greeted with the bitter bite of fermented grapes. “ Do you have a little knife? The kitchen ones are all dull—”

He begins pulling his shirt back over his shoulders.

“ Oh, no, ” I tell him, tugging it back down and pointing to the pillows. “ Here, lie down. I can get it out. I can see it—it’s a little black piece just under your skin. I know it’ll hurt, but it’s going to hurt less than dying. Here, you can drink the rest of this after I use some—”

He’s giving me such a suspicious, low-lidded gaze that I’m forced to pause.

With the way he’s looking back over his shoulder, he’s every bit a strange creature cowering in the shadows created by the fire.

To me, he barely looks frightening—not after tonight.

Scooting around until I’m facing him, my leg pressed close against his so I don’t tip off the edge of the old mattress, I give my best glare in return.

“ You think I’m going to let you suffer?” I ask.

This has him glancing away, gaze skittering over the leaf-strewn floor.

Feeling brave, I ask, “ You went out there looking for me in the dark, and you think I’m not going to help you? Don’t be dense. Lie down.”

His focus remains on the floor, but I can see the warring thoughts behind those bright eyes. If he believed he must hide here, away from everyone he loves, because he is not enough for them, I realize I’m struggling uphill.

For him, I will struggle uphill gladly.

Softly, he says, “ You are a lovely creature.”

I blink.

“ Must you see me so?”