Blood and Burden

The clearing was a tableau of chaos—bodies strewn about, the flickering fire casting long, grotesque shadows over the scene. Nathanael stood amidst the wreckage, his breathing ragged and his body trembling with the effort of staying upright. He glanced at Amara, his voice strained but steady. "Are you okay?" he asked, his words clipped as a fresh wave of pain surged through him, forcing him to clutch at his side where blood seeped through his clothing.

Amara rushed to his side, her hands hovering uncertainly as she took in the extent of his injuries. "You're in no condition to move," she said, her voice tight with worry. "We need to—"

"No," Nathanael interrupted, his tone firm despite the weakness creeping into his limbs. "We can't stay here. They'll wake up soon, and we'll be outnumbered again."

Amara's eyes flashed with frustration. "Even if we run, they'll catch up to us. You're bleeding everywhere, and I'm not exactly in peak condition either. We need to deal with this now."

Nathanael hesitated, his mind racing through the fog of pain. Finally, he nodded toward his bag, which lay a few feet away. "Bring that to me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Amara obeyed without question, retrieving the bag and handing it to him. Nathanael rummaged through its contents with trembling hands, pulling out a small bottle filled with a viscous red liquid and two strips of clean cloth. "Take this," he instructed, handing her the bottle. "Pour it onto the cloth and wrap it around my wounds. Tightly."

Amara frowned as she uncorked the bottle, the sharp, acrid smell of the substance making her nose wrinkle. "What is this?" she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion. "It smells… dangerous."

"It's a potion," Nathanael replied through gritted teeth. "Just do it."

Reluctantly, Amara followed his instructions, dousing the cloth with the red liquid and pressing it against his wounds. Nathanael hissed in pain, his body tensing as the substance made contact with his torn flesh. It burned like fire, the sensation so intense that his vision blurred for a moment. Amara's hands faltered, her concern evident. "This is making it worse!" she protested. "What kind of potion is this?"

"The kind that works," Nathanael ground out, his voice strained. "Keep going."

Amara bit her lip but complied, wrapping the cloth tightly around his thigh and side. The process was agonizingly slow, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through Nathanael's body. By the time she finished, his face was pale, his forehead slick with sweat, but the bleeding had slowed to a trickle.

Before either of them could catch their breath, a low groan echoed through the clearing. The two bandits who had been knocked unconscious were stirring, their movements clumsy but deliberate. One of them spotted Nathanael and Amara, his eyes widening with a mix of rage and fear. "You pieces of shits!" he shouted, scrambling to his feet.

Nathanael reacted instantly, shoving Amara out of harm's way as the bandit lunged at them. The blade meant for her found its mark in Nathanael's back instead, the pain blinding but brief. With a roar of defiance, Nathanael spun around, his sword flashing in the firelight as he brought it down in a vicious arc. The blade bit deep into the bandit's neck, severing flesh and bone in a single, brutal strike. The man crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood pooling beneath him.

The second bandit, undeterred by his comrade's fate, charged at Nathanael with a wild scream. But Nathanael was faster, his movements a blur as he sidestepped the attack and drove his sword into the man's chest. The bandit gasped, his eyes wide with shock, before collapsing in a heap.

Before Nathanael could catch his breath, the leader of the bandits staggered to his feet, his face twisted with fury. He raised his knife, ready to strike, but an arrow sprouted from his chest before he could take a single step. He looked down in disbelief, his mouth opening as if to speak, but no words came. He fell to his knees, then toppled forward, his body lifeless.

Amara stood a few paces away, her bow still raised, her expression a mixture of relief and grim satisfaction. "You're welcome," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Nathanael managed a faint smile, his strength waning as the adrenaline began to fade. "Thanks for covering my back," he said, his voice barely audible. "And for… tending to my wounds."

But the toll of the night's events was too much. His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, his vision darkening as the world spun around him. The last thing he saw was Amara's face, her eyes wide with panic as she rushed to his side, her voice calling his name like a distant echo.

And then, there was nothing.

*****

The warmth of sunlight filtered through the canopy above, its golden rays brushing against Nathanael's skin like a gentle caress. A faint, persistent touch—soft and furry—nudged at his arm, pulling him reluctantly from the depths of unconsciousness. His eyes fluttered open, the world coming into focus in fragments: the dappled light, the rustling leaves, the curious face of a squirrel perched on his shoulder, its tiny nose twitching as it regarded him with beady eyes.

He tried to sit up, a groan escaping his lips as pain lanced through his body, sharp and unrelenting. His wounds, though bandaged, protested vehemently, forcing him to abandon the effort and lean back against the rough bark of the tree behind him. His hand instinctively went to his side, fingers brushing against the tightly wrapped cloth that bound his injuries. He glanced down, noting the absence of his shirt and the intricate web of bandages that crisscrossed his torso and thigh. The cloth was the same as before—sturdy, practical, and now stained with dried blood.

His gaze wandered to the tree a few feet away, its trunk splintered and cracked as if struck by a force far beyond human strength. The shape of the damage mirrored the position he had been in when tied up, the ropes that had bound him now reduced to frayed remnants scattered on the ground. His brow furrowed as he took in the scene, his mind struggling to piece together the events of the night. The bodies of the bandits were gone, the clearing eerily quiet and devoid of the chaos that had unfolded hours earlier.

Before he could dwell further, a voice broke the silence. "You're awake."

Amara stood a few paces away, her arms crossed and a canteen dangling from one hand. She stepped closer, her expression a mix of relief and exasperation, and thrust the canteen toward him. "Drink," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Nathanael took the canteen, his fingers brushing against hers briefly, and raised it to his lips. The water was cool and refreshing, soothing the dryness in his throat. As he drank, Amara settled beside him, her eyes studying him with a curiosity that bordered on intensity.

"I saw it," she said abruptly, her voice cutting through the quiet. "Your sigil. It's… interesting. Covers almost your entire back. I've never seen anything like it before."

Nathanael lowered the canteen, his expression guarded. "What do you mean, 'like it before'?" he asked, his voice hoarse but steady.

Amara shrugged, her gaze drifting to the trees as if searching for the right words. "Besides mine, my father had one. And the people from the church who came to evaluate me—they had marks too. But theirs were small. Simple. Nothing like yours." She paused, her eyes flicking back to him. "Can I see it again?"

Nathanael hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Sure."

He turned his back to her, the morning air cool against his skin. He felt her fingers brush against the sigil, tracing its intricate lines with a touch that was both curious and reverent. Her murmurs were soft, almost inaudible, but he caught snippets of her words: "Unique… beautiful…"

The sensation was strange, her touch sending a faint shiver down his spine. He cleared his throat, a subtle signal for her to stop. Amara pulled her hand back, startled, and nodded. "Alright, I'll stop."

Nathanael turned to face her again, his expression unreadable. "Where are my clothes?"

Amara pointed to a nearby rock, where his shirt and jacket lay neatly folded. He reached for them, his movements slow and deliberate as he dressed, the fabric brushing against his bandages. Once clothed, he joined Amara by the fire, where a simple breakfast of dried meat and bread awaited.

As they ate, Nathanael's thoughts returned to the missing bandits. "Where are the bodies?" he asked, his voice low.

Amara gestured toward a cluster of shrubs at the edge of the clearing. "Buried them over there. Didn't think it was a good idea to leave them lying around."

Nathanael nodded, his gaze lingering on the shrubs for a moment before turning back to her. "Have you ever killed someone before?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "You didn't seem… fazed."

Amara's hands stilled, her expression clouding with something unreadable. She hesitated, then sighed, setting her food aside. "When I was younger," she began, her voice quiet, "I was out hunting with my father. A man approached us, asked for directions. My father told him to back off, but the man kept creeping closer. I had my bow ready, and when he charged at us… I shot him. Straight through the gut."

She paused, her gaze distant, as if reliving the memory. "He cursed us, called us every name under the sun. Then he just… fell silent. I didn't mean to do it. I knew my father could've handled him, but my body just… moved on its own. For a moment, it was like I wasn't even there. Like the man wasn't a man at all, just some animal."

Nathanael watched her, his expression thoughtful. "And your father?"

Amara's lips curved into a faint, bitter smile. "He said I did the right thing. That sometimes, you don't have the luxury of hesitation."

The clearing fell silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air between them. Nathanael nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to the horizon. "Sometimes," he murmured, "hesitation gets you killed."