The healers hands, chapter 3. (and a little of chapter 4)

Peace and love on planet earth. I know some of you saw my comments on last weeks chapter, how I was dissatisfied with it. And for a while, I just couldn’t figure out why; well, I knew it was my prose, mainly. How I went from sentence to sentence just describing events. I was all about plot, and barely touched on the heart of it. That is a remnant of finishing the draft of ouro at lightning speed. (It is also why it is Taking A While to edit, if you were wondering.) Writing like half a mill words in that manner, changes something in you. Rewrites the way you think of a sentence. Makes it very utilitarian, and less evocative. I was also so sad, and so lost, in those early weeks since my separation, that it bled all over my writing. But then, halfway through this week, something changed. I felt the great Ca-KLUNK as my gears shifted. I didn’t want the epic plot I have for ouro in this piece. I wanted domesticity, intimacy, a heart on a sleeve and an introspection so deep it told you more about Leith than you could ever find out in ouro alone. And it came to me, and it came and it came and it came: in long winding sentences, short punchy ones, metaphors and similes wrapping them up in a neat little bow. So, before you read this chapter, forget a little bit about the first two ones. Not entirely, but see them as distant cousins, not siblings, to this project. I will rewrite them when I have time to do so, but for now I am so happy to just explore how Leith/MC’s relationship evolves in these early days, to their days as hunters, and to the inevitable conclusion, when OUROBOROS will pick up the thread. I hope you like it, and enjoy the return of my favorite writing style as much as I do. x

Leith was a not good man. Which is why, when he went to pick up his healer for a stroll and a bite to eat, right after confirming the death of Mina’s parents —their bodies decomposed in the corner of the dungeon he tossed them into months ago— he smiled. With teeth. He felt relief, as deep as the sea, roiling inside him. 

He hoped there would be forgiveness, for a soul as black as his. That his Goddess of Twilight would give him a pebble of truth, and he’d keep it in his mouth, right under his tongue.
He hoped, when he sacrificed and prayed, that she would take him in and tell him he was right. She would say that there was far too much darkness in his world, and if his light couldn’t push it back enough, he could resort to taking the darkness away, even if it meant to swallow it whole and allow it to change him. He could take it on, he could make it less. Like twilight, a balance. He was not a good man. But he was not bad, either. This is what he tried to believe.

He sniffed the shoulder of his jacket as he stepped out, and he stunk of the incense from the temple. He put his hair up, fussed with it for a while, trying to look good. He used a window as his mirror, surveying his angles, all his sharpness. Was he a good man? Really?The light came on from inside the window, and a face came from behind the curtains, a young man, sleep still etched on his features. Leith, playful, snapped his teeth at him, and grinned. The man laughed in a sleepy, dismissive way, and Leith left.

Dusk had slithered out into the street, a tide of shadows washing over every stone, every leaf. It felt foreboding, ominous. All he needed to complete the picture was a haunting mist, its movements writhing around every corner, stalking. What was he going to tell her, when she asked again for his grand plan? There was none. There was one, singular granule of an idea, and it was far too dangerous to drag the healer alongside him. He wanted to hurt people, kill them dead and smile at their corpses. Lick their blood off his fingers.

Let’s break into the cathedral and stake out the well. 

It was not that he doubted the healer's capabilities, or her bravery, but if anything happened, if they were discovered or forced to fight? To flee? He sucked on his teeth, spitting on the curb as he crossed the street. Fuck. 

He had wanted to offer her relief of her anxiety in the form of action, of taking part in the way to the solution to all this. He knew how she fretted, always eager to get her hands right into the mess, elbow deep and pin-point focused, rummaging and ravaging until she found the issue, untangled it, solved it with that lightning fast, elegant mind of hers. There was no keeping her out of this, no way to usher her aside and let him take over. Even the thought was preposterous, caused a huff of amusement to rush out of his nostrils. He shook his head. She would chase him around Riven with a cast iron pan if he even thought of excluding her. And yet.

If he could stall for some months longer, and just invite her out to dinner after dinner to take her mind off of things, maybe he too would forget about the dozen other children that had been transported to Oakwerth this week alone. It was a pandemic, of poor parents either hoping for a better future for their children, or like with Mina’s parents, trying to pay off debt. He spat again, disgusted. His mood quickly turned sour, when it came to these matters. The druids had fallen apart since the introduction of the new High Priestess, one that was Oakwerthian born, Riven raised. Diversity, they called it, a lie, is what it was. It had nothing to do with her background, and everything to do with her connections, who she invited, what she gave away, bit by bit. She had upheaved everything of the old order and started to slowly disintegrate the integrity of the well. Pamphlets had been handed out, for god's sake. For the once mythical well, now an attraction to the rich. Money, money, money. Always with the money. Saliva burned on his tongue. He felt unmoored, helpless in the face of everything. He could pray, and he could kill, but he could not solve. Not everything. Wind rushed around and whistled in his ears, and all he could think to do was to take shelter. He was not a good man.

He spotted the healer’s cottage, its door slightly ajar, liquid gold spilling onto the stairs to her door. Leith paused for a moment, catching sight of the wind rustling through the garden’s wildflowers, stirring them into a gentle waltz. He could hear the distant murmur of voices spilling from taverns, the clinking of tankards echoing in the alleys, dancing together with the earthy scent of wet stone and overripe fruit that had fallen from the market stalls. He dreamt, about dancing with her. A slow dance, on a balcony somewhere, her head tucked under his chin, lips against his throat. Tongue, and nakedness, and nothing else. Fuck.

Eventually, he pushed the door open, the creak a reluctant confession, a statement of inevitability. The warmth pulled him forward, the scent of her herbs enveloping him with a calm: the eye of the storm. She was there, hunched over her workbench, a collection of glass vials and herbs strewn about, an artist’s palette. He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned back against her wall. He murmured her name, like a prayer. Like amen.

“You’re here,” she said, like a question, and it tugged on a string tied in his chest. 

“You’re there,” an answer.

She turned, her eyes lanterns in the dark, alive and bright, flickering across his features. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He smiled, a little crooked thing; a hook in the corner of his mouth. Caught. “Just the usual hauntings.” The words were gravel in his mouth. He felt like spitting again. Instead, he said, to get it over with, “They’re gone. Riven will never be plagued by Mina’s parents again.”

“Good,” she said, hissing red-hot like a brand. “Screw my oath. May their souls never find peace.”

It never ceased to amaze him, the way she was there, both feet planted on the ground, reliable, sturdy, unwavering. She was good, even when her mood was foul. He felt like she was what he could cling to in a storm. Like maybe, if there always was her, he would somehow survive. And other times, he thought that she was the entire purpose. Of everything. Her, and her lips, and her frown.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, pushing the bitter reality further away; being a bulwark, for her. It was the least he could do. He did not enjoy the frown that scarred her forehead, right between her brows. His thumb itched to smooth it out. 

She undid her apron, and stashed it aside. Smoothed down her blouse. “I have not. Do you want beer and meat, or noodles and whiskey?”

“Whatever you want,” he meant it. “Noodles and whiskey?” 

He saw her smile for the first time that day, and it punched him square in the gut. Bright and alive. Every seam that barely held his unraveling body together, tightened again. A bucket of water over his weary heart. Perhaps, he could do this. Believe in that which she believed in: him, being a good man. A strong man. She walked up and almost passed him, but stopped abruptly and lingered, right below his chin. She rolled her lips, and was so frighteningly close, he had to swallow past his urge to tug her to him. Her eyes darkened, and she wet her lips, examining him. Always examining. Turning him inside out. He felt her, inside him, examining. Tugging on his threads. He squinted his eyes in challenge. How much deeper could she go? To the core of him, through it?

“You still haven’t told me, what we can do. There must be something we can do.”

Her eyes were big, like ponds. His strange creature. He put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her on the forehead. It was easy, like that, for him. “Food first,” he said and ushered her out the door, snickering. “I never make plans on an empty stomach.”

They walked along one of the forks of the river. The water was smooth and blue. Duckweed collected along the reeds, the water too calm to keep the surface clean. Frogs croaked.

Let’s break into the cathedral and stake out the well. He held those words in his throat, pushed them down and down, and hummed a melody instead. She bumped her shoulder into his arm. “What’s that song?” 

“Something a man has to do alone.” He turned so he could look at her. “By The Datho, the—”

“The new band,” she interrupted, good-natured. “I like their songs. And the one that plays the fiddle.”

Leith laughed. “Of course you would.”

“You say that as if you don’t have a hard-on for the singer.” 

He guffawed, poked her in the ribs. She smiled, her teeth like jewels, and she tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear, fingertips lingering at the junction of his jaw. The backs of her fingers smoothing down to his chin. He held the door to the restaurant open for her. 

They were very good at it, this casual intimacy. It was practiced, so easy. Two leaves in a stream, twirling around each other, catching, releasing. She walked ahead, catching sight of a friend at the bar. Hugging them tight, laughing and bumping shoulders. She glowed. Leith stood rooted, lingering in the endless, silver hallway of longing.

I will break into the cathedral and stake out the well. He finally said it, there, in the restaurant, after they had slurped their noodles and wiped their mouths with the back of their hand. It was warm, the interior wooden, with couch cushions you could disappear into. He had just gotten them two more fingers of whiskey, and he felt bothered by the possibilities. Like he couldn’t keep her from the idea, but maybe from the act. If he explained it well enough, clever enough, she would understand. 

She looked at him like she refused to understand, in that way of hers. Examining. Taking his tattered roots in her hands, untangling them. “What do you mean?”

His voice was hushed, brushing over the table, reaching her over the flames of waxen candles. His arm was thrown over the back of the booth they sat in, his legs wide. She leaned in to listen. 

“I would go after the change of guards two months from now, when they start another initiative, inviting dignitaries from Oakwerth, some sort of ambassadors, I don't know, they never tell us.” He leaned in too, conspiring. “But I want to know. Need to know. What the purpose of it all is. Why the Ormr church has taken interest in our deities again. In our Stila. It is the blood of the gods, you know?”

“That’s a myth.”

“So is everything, until it is true.”

“I want to come with you.”

He sipped his drink, rolled it over his tongue. Sat it down on the table with a thud. “No.”

“Why?” 

“It will be in the middle of the day. You have your patients.” He made it sound like patience.

“I’ve seen you fight,” she said, “all limbs and knives. And luck.”

This hurt him. She was always there, and always rooted in this frightening reality, but sometimes he wished for a little leniency. So he kept it light, smirked at her over the flickering candles, his bravado an inflated balloon in his chest. He huffed. “You insult me.”

She got very serious. “It’s true, Leith,” she leaned over the table, took his hand in her hand, his large, calloused hand, and she traced the lines in his palms. They went on for miles. She reached the end, pressed on his fingertip and looked up at him. There was that furrow again.

 “I don’t mean to insult you. But you will get yourself in trouble. Here, in Riven. It is different when it’s out there, in the places on the maps. But not here. They will banish you, and there will be nothing I can do.”

“Only if I get discovered.”

“And you will.”

He began to protest, withdrawing his hand. She pulled him back, close to her chest. “No, listen to me. Who is going to be your lookout? Who will have your back?”

This made him simmer. “Let me remind you, that I’m doing this because I have your back. You also want justice for Mina. For all the others.”

She waved a hand in dismissance, letting him withdraw. “You can’t say that you’re doing me a favor, when you want me to let you do something so reckless. You always do reckless things.”

“Someone has to do something. You wanted me to do something.”

“There’s a difference, Leith. I want us to do something, and I want it to be wholesome. Carefully thought through. My way.”

“Wholesome.” He shook his head, took a deep swig from the glass, and waved the waiter over. He ordered another round. When the waiter left, so did some of his anger, his hurt. It was like this, with them. He challenged, she grounded. He still refused to believe that she was right, but that was just how it was.  He could at least try to be good.

“Tell me then, <name>, what is your grand plan?” 

She did this cute thing, showing her teeth, grimacing, embarrassed. Her nose scrunched up, and Leith felt a little bit like the world dropped from under him. 

“I don’t have a plan,” she said. 

He laughed deeply at that. “You want me to do something, but I'm not allowed to do it. Got it.” His smile was obfuscated by the rim of his glass as he said it, a bit sideways. 

Exasperated, she sighed, and deflated. Wilted a little bit. “Is it really necessary to break into the Stila?” She said the Stila like it was some ancient horror best not named. 

He shrugged, drank his drink and helped himself to a little of hers. Hey, she squawked, and yanked it back. She looked expectantly at him, pressed the glass to her chin, right where his lips had been.

“I don’t know what else to do, <nickname>. They don’t tell us anything. All I know is that it is escalating, our missions fewer, bloodier. They have us chasing entire organizations that have fallen out of favor, now. Not the lone wanderers that stumble upon us, too curious for their own good. Something has changed.”

“Well,” she said, “if you must break into the well, I will come with you. I happen to have a key into the sanctum.”

“Why didn’t you start with that? That’s a plan, all in itself. Wholesome.”

She pressed air through closed lips, a nervous laugh. “Wholesome. Still don’t have a plan for if we get caught—”

“You are not coming with me.”

“Am so. I’m a grown woman, Leith. And you’re not my father.”

He looked at her then, his little healer. Sure, he was not her father, but, “Am I not allowed to be a little worried? A little a lot worried?”

“So I’m supposed to be the only one who worries?”

“Worries for nothing, nickname. You’re always fretting.”

“And you’re always getting into trouble.”

“Bwah.” Leith concluded, a bit drunkenly drawling, and then they sat in silence for a bit. This was also easy, for them. Passing her glass between them, silent sips. People watching. At the bar, a cluster of other mercenaries just home from a job. Ida was amongst them, leaning against the tall shelf like a willow tree, her black hair a curtain that hid sooted eyes and a smile of fangs. She was chatting up another woman, twining her hair between her fingers, chuckling at something the woman had said, in that slow, sultry way of hers. She had the woman in her thrall, her prey for the night, and her eyes shone with the thrill of it. Leith often wondered what that felt like, something so otherworldly as Ida. He looked at the healer, tried to imitate Ida’s hot charm. The healer looked back, skeptical. “Do I have something on my face?”

He shook his head. Nevermind.

By the time they left, they did in fact have a plan. One that was wholesome and carefully thought through. We will break into the cathedral and stake out the well. He had almost kissed her square on the lips when she said it, but ended up just lifting her into a hug and spun her around on the doorstep to the restaurant. She had laughed, a hundred birds taking flight, her head thrown back so that he saw the whole column of her throat and how her skin stretched over it. It filled him with a new kind of warmth. Seren had clapped him on the back, hard, as if he had done a good job, and Ida had cast a wide grin over her shoulder as she heard the healer laugh, before turning back to walk home with her catch, still warm between her teeth.
But Leith was worried. Though, he reminded himself, as she had said, fully serious and with that little conspiratorial furrow: they could worry together, about each other. A compromise— that was the wholesome part of the plan. The carefully thought through part was that at any sign of being discovered, they would get the hell out of dodge, very fast. Very carefully. It was not a great plan.

Now they walked side by side, along another one of the forks of the river. Over a bridge, and under one. Wisteria had started to bloom, reaching for them from above. No frogs croaked, but men did. Drunken groups swaying like buoys in the street, laughing, singing. The moon hung so low that he could almost touch it, and he wanted to. He wanted to hook it on his finger and bring it to her mouth to taste. Such greatness. Something so large, as large as the love he had inside him. He didn’t care if she returned it with a kiss, or a laugh. All that mattered was that she was there, and that she always would be.

The day had come. Two months later, when their schedules had aligned and information had been passed that there would be something interesting goings on, at the Stila. He was all restless energy, waiting for her at the courtyard by the harbor. It smelled of pale roses. He fiddled with his knives, turning them in his palm, twining them between his fingers with speed. It was why his hands were so callous, a thousand tiny cuts, healed over. His skin was like another armor, and it had saved him many times. Once, or twice, he had ended up in close combat and saved himself from being skewered by grabbing the shortsword in his palm, like a sheath. It had bled, but the cut wasn’t as deep as it could have been.
It was like this with his personality too. He wore his charm like an outfit. All buttoned up and chaste, not showing any skin. Well, some skin. He truly did care, a lot, all the time. But he never let slip the ankle that was his fear, his rage, his darkness. It was locked away beneath his smile. His teeth, the danger.

So he smiled when he saw her, casual, relaxed. His stomach turned inside out. Why did he agree to this? 

“Hi.” She said, swaying on her feet. She was dressed in leathers, skin tight. He couldn’t help staring. 

“Wow,” he said, his tongue a loose cannon in his mouth. “Armor looks...” He took her hand, lifted it over her head, and made her twirl. He growled a little, watching her ass, her thighs.  "Delicious."

“Flatterer.” She stepped closer, tugged on his lapels, straightening him up. “Are you ready?”

“Mhm.” This was one moment he wished she wouldn’t stop fretting, to keep touching his buttons, his ties. But the moment had to end. He had to become serious, step into mercenary mode, protect her. His primal urge, the weight of it, he hoped would keep them safe. He had to be good. He put a finger under her chin, lifted it up a little. “Are you?”

Her eyes were sharp, intent. She had two daggers holstered. “I think so. This feels very scary. Like things are going to change forever. But like we have a right to it, somehow. Like we have to grab it by the horns. You know?”

“I do.” It was a metaphor to him. And he was not a good man. So he leaned down, and stole a kiss. Right from her mouth. At first, it was closed, chaste, achingly delicate; just a cushioning for his hope as it fell free from his gut. But then she threw her arms around his neck, hung off him, and invited him inside. The little surprise, her brittle moan, lit him up. Keyed him up as high as he could go, made him desperate. There by the harbor, as the moon peaked out from behind the clouds and the air smelled of roses and the sea, he wrapped his arms around her, fitted her to him as close as she could go, this great, tall, terrible man, and kissed her like the world was ending. 

Ch. 4.

It was hot, and heavy, when they parted, tore away from the clutching and clawing; their lips swollen with pleasure, her thighs rubbing against each other, his full hardness an agony he could only grit his teeth against. 

“Fuck,” he had said, and kissed her again. Fitted his thigh between hers, dragging her heat along the very peak of it, his hands like vices on her hips. How he wanted.

“We have to stop,” she whispered, and continued to kiss him, hands in his hair, breath in his throat. 

His mind was so watery, his muscles so tight, he wanted to roar. Lift her against a tree and press her knees to her chest and fuck her right there, like an animal. But he knew. “I know,” he said. And kissed her again, groaning from deep within himself. He always had the worst timing.

He set her free, a bird from his palm. Kissed her temple. “I’m sorry,” he said, his smile crooked in that way. “I couldn’t help myself.”

She swayed towards him, completely out of it, her hair in static ringlets around her face. “I--,” she stammered, and then laughed. She put her hands in the air, exploding a firework. “Whoosh.”

“Mhm.” He couldn’t stop looking at her, really looking; her frazzled state, the way her chest rose and fell quick, like a bunny. He wanted to trace his tongue against every seam of her. 

“Still up for criminal activities?” he asked, pressed his thumb to her lower lip, cursing himself for waiting until now.

She swiped her tongue at it, tittered a bit, a little crazy about it all. She nodded. “We have to. We have to do it.”

Hope to see you all next week for the finale of chapter 4! x