“So you were shifted.” The man says from behind her. Saoirse frowns and holds a hand up before pointing to her bag and her mouth. The man gives her a look, almost incredulous.
“Now’s not really the time for a snack.” He says, irritation showing in the lines of his mouth and the way his chin juts out slightly. He sighs and slides down the barn door, sitting next to her.
“Is it at least something tasty?” Saoirse shakes her head and quickly pulls out another sachet of herbs.
She shoves it at him and motions for him to put it in his mouth, and when he does his face contorts into a grimace. She shoves the waterskin at him next and motions for him to fill his mouth and swish. He does.
While he’s distracted Saoirse takes the chance to quickly move his fancy coat out of the way and unbuckles the side of his leather armor, pushing it away and holding it up with her left hand. She goes through the motions with ease, having done this to her father many times. When her new companion notices what she’s doing he makes a noise in the back of his throat and tries to push her hands away from his wounded ribs. Saoirse decides this is the moment. She likely wouldn’t get another chance without having to waste the medicine in her own mouth, so it’s going to happen whether he continues to smack the top of her head or not. She looks up at the guy one more time, and he’s watching her and trying desperately to shove her away. She looks back down and spits, a fountain of saliva and water imbued with magic and herbs. The smell is almost as bad as the taste.
“What the hell are you doing?!” he tries to screech, shooting up from his position on the ground and groaning out in pain when the movement proves difficult. Though, the sound is more garbled as the sachet shoots from his lips and the water dribbles down his chin and onto his chest. He begins to rub at his wound, trying to wipe off the mixture of spit-water and blood.
“You wasted the rest, but I think that should slow the bleeding a little.” Saoirse says wiping her mouth before rinsing it out with the remaining water in the skin. “I can’t heal it completely. The gashes are too deep.” She continues now glaring up at the man.
As soon as she mentions healing he stops and eyes her dubiously. He cranes his neck trying to look at his wounds, which to Saoirse’s delight, the smaller cuts begin to close. The scent of the wasted healing potion mixes with the dirt and begins to drift upward. Saoirse scrunches up her nose and the man blanches.
“Are you sure you didn’t just poison me?” he accuses, glaring back at Saoirse who bristles at the accusation.
“Would I have put poison into my own mouth?!” she exclaims while violently motioning to her face. “It’s a minor healing potion, you dullard!” she yells at him yanking another sachet out of the bag.
“I- what?” he asks, shaking his head. “I’m supposed to believe this foul smelling mixture is a potion?” the man questions, every word out of his mouth sharp and laced with a poison of its own.
Saoirse reels back as if she’s been struck. She goes out of her way to help this man, this injured man, and all he does is complain about the smell. As if the smaller wounds knitting themselves back together meant nothing.
She figured that even though he is very rich, he would not turn his nose to help. But, apparently like every other self-important high fae, this man belittled what small amount of magic she did have. She stands from her seated position, placing the sachet that was gripped in her fist back into the bag. She aggressively closes the bag and hang it back up on the peg.
“I’m so sorry the smell isn’t to your taste but I figured you’d rather stink than bleed to death.” Saoirse sneers and shoves some bandage into his hands.
As she says this she hears a commotion in the bushes outside. It sounded as if someone was cutting their way through the brambles that surrounded the far edge of the northern half of the pasture. Her head whips around at the sound just in time to see the figure of a large owlbear approaching her fence line. Saoirse feels her stomach drop, and her heart all but stops before kicking up into a fever pitch.
This is what she gets for helping someone, a dangerous high fae wandering into her fields.
She watches as the bear climbs over the fence, and she instinctively shifts. The cracking and popping that comes from her body alerts the fae to their presence and it’s eyes hone in on them. The man at her side laughs and she barks at him before turning to run off.
She wills her legs to go as fast as they can to carry her to the fence, and as she readies to catapult over the obstacle a firm hand grabs her by the scruff of her neck. Saoirse yelps and whimpers before falling back to the ground. She squirms as much as she can, hoping she can get away from whatever fae got a hold of her, the bear or the injured man.
“Now wait just one moment, there.” A new voice says, slamming their knee right into her ribcage.
“Please let me go,” Saoirse wheezes as she transforms back into her natural form, the knee of the man still pushing into her ribs and her hair tangled in his fist.
“I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Saoirse gasps and pulls her arms in to cover her head in preparation for whatever beating she was to receive.
“He showed up hurt, I thought I was helping.” She all but sobs. The knee in her ribs moves and lands on the ground next to her. The pressure on her hair releases, and she curls in on herself. She hasn’t had to deal with a beating in a long time.
“You didn’t sound like you were having a pleasant conversation. What did you give him?” The man asks.
“Artair, I don’t think she gave me poison. I mean look here-” the other man approached Saoirse and Artair when a sound cut him off.
“What’s going on?” A soft voice says from the treeline and Saoirse shudders.
Niamh.
She tries to look at Niamh, to tell her to run home as fast as she can.
