sorry at all, and I narrow my eyes at him, but the sod doesn’t seem to notice. When we finally reach the tree, I help him into a sitting position, and I might be a little rougher than necessary.
“Oops,” I reply with a shrug, kneeling at his side and picking up the abandoned water flask. Opening the lid, I take a gulp before handing it to him, but he shakes his head and reaches into his back pocket, wincing as he pulls out a small metal flask. I have no idea where he managed to get it from, he probably stole it from one of the guards. I can’t imagine the king is kind enough to supply his prisoners with alcohol.
“I deserved that,” he mutters, giving me the flask. Unscrewing the cap, I take a tentative sniff, pulling a face at the stinging sensation the alcohol causes.
Phew, that’s strong stuff, I think, having never understood the appeal of hard liquor, not that I’ve had access to it until recently. I remember the burning sensation when Grayson had given me some whiskey, and I had practically spat the amber liquid out there and then. At least this should work for cleansing the wound.
Shaking the flask, I praise the Mother that it feels almost full. I reach out, lift his shirt, and wince when I see the wound again, but I quickly try to mask my concern when I feel his eyes on my face.
“That bad?” he asks, but I don’t answer his question.
“I need to clean and dress your wound. It’s going to hurt, but I’ll try to be gentle.” Grabbing the flask again, I feel my hands shake, and I wish I didn’t have to do this, but something in my gut tells me that if I don’t, he won’t survive the trip to the elven city.
“If you find some angel’s breath, you can pack the wound with it, it should help draw the toxins from the wound,” he tells me, and I look up from the lesion, meeting his eyes. He knows how serious his wound is, the poison travelling through his body is moving quickly. Taking a deep breath, I pull my gaze away from his and the possibilities of what could happen if I don’t get this right.
“Angel’s breath. Is that a plant?” I query, glancing around the clearing expectantly. If there’s something that would help, then I should try to find it. “Can you see it here?”
“Yes, it’s a plant, but you won’t find it here, it grows near running water.”
My gut sinks as he speaks. I don’t know where we’re going to find running water, or when we’ll come across it, so for now, we’ll have to do without it. I say as much, and wait for his nod for me to continue.
“Tell me something, talk to me. What’s the elven city like?” I ask to distract him, as I remove the cap from the flask again, pushing the fabric from his shirt up so it won’t fall down onto the wound while I’m trying to clean it.
“Elves prefer to live in smaller groups, unlike you humans who live like mites in a hive, all so close together,” he mutters, watching my movements carefully. “There are three different... factions of elves—high elves, sea elves, and wood elves. The main city, Galandell, is a place where we can all come together, although the high elves rule us all,” he explains, and I whisper the city name to myself, feeling a chill settle over me as I do.
“What are you?” I inquire, as I pour the alcohol onto his wound, although I’m pretty sure I can guess. He gasps and grits his teeth as soon as the spirits hit, his hands gripping handfuls of grass and balling into fists as if they it’s going to help keep him down.
“I’m a high elf,” he grit outs and I nod. I was right. He has an attitude about him that exudes high elf. I don’t know how I know this, but it’s a feeling that emanates from him.
Focusing on my task, I inspect the wound and pour a little more of the spirit onto it, trying to block out his pained noises. I stare down at my strips of fabric and bite my lip as I try to decide what to do next. Do I douse the fabric and sterilise it? No, I don’t want to make the wound wetter than it is, but if I pack it with