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augustines2013-09-01 03:46 am
smithereens) wrote in augustines2013-09-01 03:46 am
Entry tags:
tantivy.
Cleo finds him sitting in front of their modest fire, struggling to unwind the bandage around his shoulder with one hand. He’d heard her returning, of course, the expression he shows her sullen as she walks into the firelight.
“Here, let me do that,” she says, in a tone she hopes will broker no argument. She knows enough of Damiyr to know he resists help from others at almost all costs.
It seems to work, since he hands her the roll of bandage without protest, and doesn’t so much as wince when she kneels down and begins to undress his wound. “As you wish.”
When she finally pulls away the old dressing, she inspects the wound as the doctor told her to do, looking for irritation or infection—bruising was healthy, the old woman had said, but not raw red or a greenish tinge—and finding none. The large gash is healing nicely, even if it still pains her secondhand to look at it.
“Does it hurt?” she asks, pressing the tip of her finger very carefully against the stitches, to make sure they were still holding fast; he only shoots her an unamused look, one eyebrow arched crisply.
She laughs. “Nevermind.”
“I’ve had worse,” he concedes finally, after she’d started wrapping the clean bandages around his shoulder.
“I hope it doesn’t ruin your hallah,” she says soberly, eyes on the intricate, curving dark lines that disappear little by little under the white linen. “The scar.”
“It can be remade,” he says. After a pause, he adds wryly, “My brother will likely be pleased, to have such a mark through his hallah.”
She smiles at that, touching gentle fingers to the ink on his skin without thinking. “Your brother’s—which one?”
“My second-brother, Samur. Madiq will be jealous.” His hand, at her side, opens and closes absently, and Cleo remembers him telling her that the tattoo that covers his arm almost completely from elbow to the back of his hand belonged to his eldest brother—his brothers had fought over which piece of Damiyr’s sword arm they would take.
She moves around to his back, then, and ties the knot behind his shoulder so that it does not chafe at the wound; she tries not to stare too conspicuously long at the great lion inked across the expanse of his back, under the guise of smoothing down the bandage.
When she circles back around to sit beside him, he catches her wrist in his other hand, stopping her in her tracks, forcing her to kneel in front of him again.
“Damiyr?”
“I thank you,” he says, not reluctantly so much as gravely, a deep crease between his eyebrows. “For taking me to the medicine woman—for caring for me. I owe you my life.”
Something about the intensity of his gaze makes her mouth go dry, and Cleo swallows thickly, attempting a smile. “I was only paying you back for saving my life. With the bandits.”
His frown deepens, a dispute on his tongue. “I would have—”
“You jumped in front of me. I don’t know what else you would call it.”
“I am still in your debt, for what you did. My father, my mother—my family would agree.”
“Then I’m in your debt too, aren’t I?”
His frown becomes a scowl, and she tries not to let her grin grow out of control.
“Stubborn,” he says finally, sighing.
“I could say the same of you.”
He doesn’t reply, so that the silence lingers and she realizes with a start that his hand is still gripping her wrist, and that his thumb is tracing small circles on the inside of it. His gaze is intense again, piercing, his brow furrowed in thought, and she feels suddenly a little light-headed, almost dizzy.
Then he leans very slightly in, close enough that she can feel the warmth of his proximity, warmer even than the fire at her back, and her breath catches in her throat. The ghost of a smile plays on his lips, as if he’s keeping some great secret; she’s annoyed by how suddenly transparent and shy she’s become, but unable to find very much of her voice all the same.
“Damiyr…”
His eyes flicker to her lips as they move, briefly, and that simple motion seems to set her heart into an even more furious rhythm. He releases her wrist only to lift his hand and tuck her hair behind her ear, with far more tenderness than she ever would’ve expected from those hands.
“This isn’t how I expected to repay you,” she says dryly, finally discovering her voice again. It feels as though she is standing, breathless, on the edge of a precipice, and everything about the closeness of his body and the brush of his fingers and the softness in his eyes is urging her to jump into the glaring unknown.
“I told you, I don’t expect to be repaid,” he says mildly, the smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Something about that characteristic pigheadedness sets the decision in her mind; without hesitation, she leans forward to close the distance between them.
“Here, let me do that,” she says, in a tone she hopes will broker no argument. She knows enough of Damiyr to know he resists help from others at almost all costs.
It seems to work, since he hands her the roll of bandage without protest, and doesn’t so much as wince when she kneels down and begins to undress his wound. “As you wish.”
When she finally pulls away the old dressing, she inspects the wound as the doctor told her to do, looking for irritation or infection—bruising was healthy, the old woman had said, but not raw red or a greenish tinge—and finding none. The large gash is healing nicely, even if it still pains her secondhand to look at it.
“Does it hurt?” she asks, pressing the tip of her finger very carefully against the stitches, to make sure they were still holding fast; he only shoots her an unamused look, one eyebrow arched crisply.
She laughs. “Nevermind.”
“I’ve had worse,” he concedes finally, after she’d started wrapping the clean bandages around his shoulder.
“I hope it doesn’t ruin your hallah,” she says soberly, eyes on the intricate, curving dark lines that disappear little by little under the white linen. “The scar.”
“It can be remade,” he says. After a pause, he adds wryly, “My brother will likely be pleased, to have such a mark through his hallah.”
She smiles at that, touching gentle fingers to the ink on his skin without thinking. “Your brother’s—which one?”
“My second-brother, Samur. Madiq will be jealous.” His hand, at her side, opens and closes absently, and Cleo remembers him telling her that the tattoo that covers his arm almost completely from elbow to the back of his hand belonged to his eldest brother—his brothers had fought over which piece of Damiyr’s sword arm they would take.
She moves around to his back, then, and ties the knot behind his shoulder so that it does not chafe at the wound; she tries not to stare too conspicuously long at the great lion inked across the expanse of his back, under the guise of smoothing down the bandage.
When she circles back around to sit beside him, he catches her wrist in his other hand, stopping her in her tracks, forcing her to kneel in front of him again.
“Damiyr?”
“I thank you,” he says, not reluctantly so much as gravely, a deep crease between his eyebrows. “For taking me to the medicine woman—for caring for me. I owe you my life.”
Something about the intensity of his gaze makes her mouth go dry, and Cleo swallows thickly, attempting a smile. “I was only paying you back for saving my life. With the bandits.”
His frown deepens, a dispute on his tongue. “I would have—”
“You jumped in front of me. I don’t know what else you would call it.”
“I am still in your debt, for what you did. My father, my mother—my family would agree.”
“Then I’m in your debt too, aren’t I?”
His frown becomes a scowl, and she tries not to let her grin grow out of control.
“Stubborn,” he says finally, sighing.
“I could say the same of you.”
He doesn’t reply, so that the silence lingers and she realizes with a start that his hand is still gripping her wrist, and that his thumb is tracing small circles on the inside of it. His gaze is intense again, piercing, his brow furrowed in thought, and she feels suddenly a little light-headed, almost dizzy.
Then he leans very slightly in, close enough that she can feel the warmth of his proximity, warmer even than the fire at her back, and her breath catches in her throat. The ghost of a smile plays on his lips, as if he’s keeping some great secret; she’s annoyed by how suddenly transparent and shy she’s become, but unable to find very much of her voice all the same.
“Damiyr…”
His eyes flicker to her lips as they move, briefly, and that simple motion seems to set her heart into an even more furious rhythm. He releases her wrist only to lift his hand and tuck her hair behind her ear, with far more tenderness than she ever would’ve expected from those hands.
“This isn’t how I expected to repay you,” she says dryly, finally discovering her voice again. It feels as though she is standing, breathless, on the edge of a precipice, and everything about the closeness of his body and the brush of his fingers and the softness in his eyes is urging her to jump into the glaring unknown.
“I told you, I don’t expect to be repaid,” he says mildly, the smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Something about that characteristic pigheadedness sets the decision in her mind; without hesitation, she leans forward to close the distance between them.