For several seconds Aaron just stood there, the image seared into his brain. It was grotesque. Trasnu was surrounded by peaceful, innocent greenery. His still body belonged there like a gun would in a church. Trasnu himself laid down on a bed of flattened vegetation on his stomach, perfectly still, one hand extended as if he fell asleep while reaching up for something. A large, jagged, ugly wound was on his thigh, gushing blood, the injury so rough and raw that Aaron could discern the pink of his flesh as it gaped open.
There was a clump of small, bright yellow flowers beside his head.
He almost threw up. The elation he felt at having survived the encounter with the monster dropped into a void in his stomach, and his brain just flat out blanked. But then Trasnu groaned -- a small weak sound, like a kicked dog -- and relief flooded into Aaron so hard that his knees became weak again.
Alive. He's still alive.
The horrified young man exploded into motion. He took off his ragged shirt and without hesitation tore it into strips, which he bandaged tightly around the wound, having to awkwardly navigate around the older man's prone body. The measly cloth immediately blossomed red. His fingers were trembling.
Old Hunter was about the heaviest thing he has ever remembered carrying, straining all of his body to heave the man on to his shoulder. He huffed as he took a step. The beastman was
heavy
. He smelled vaguely like a mixture of a comfortable, canine scent and man. That was enough to motivate him as he took another single step.
He paused, already beginning to pant. Trasnu would need a change of bandages, and now he didn't have a serviceable shirt. Their group had just lost their primary source of food, and their efforts in the immediate next few days would undoubtedly focus on caring for Trasnu. They might be able to survive on roots and herbs, but the incapacitated man himself would need the most nutrition that his body could get in order to heal as fast as possible. And he is also primarily a carnivore. In other words, they
needed
the meat. But would he be able to do it?
He had to do it.
Aaron went back for the deer.
It was about the most difficult thing that he has ever done, physically. There's something about the weight of a man when the man is dying as you carried him -- Aaron almost believed he could feel the beastman grow steadily lighter. But with a deep grunt of exertion he was able to pick up the deer and drag it with his left hand even as his right secured Trasnu on his shoulder. His muscles were already beginning to ache. Their campsite was at least an hour's walk away. He began to take step after step, after step.
* * *
"I could tell you were able to direct your magic at the stack, but you failed to ignite it. I told you, fire might
look
like an explosion, but it doesn't
feel
like one."
Lydia nodded, her face tight. Inside, she was struggling. She was able to do everything perfectly, right up to the moment where she needed to use the energy to actually make the fire. Serche kept on telling her that it wasn't an explosion -- but then, what
was
it? What
is
fire, anyway?
Serche saw the expression on her face. "I'm sorry, fire is the form of magic that I like the least. It feels unnatural and strange, something I never quite got used to all this time. Like... like making a wound in nature, tearing a part of it open. I don't know. But it's very necessary, especially in our current situation. It took me a couple of tendays to master it as well, and the most I could do with it is a large spark."
Lydia took a deep breath, seeing the struggle on her teacher's face. "Yes, I definitely understand. I just can't quite grasp it. I can control my magic but I don't know what to do with it to make it ignite."
"I know exactly how you feel." The Shaman sighed. "Perhaps it would help if-"
Lydia noticed the instantaneous shift in Serche's body language. Her words cut off, her eyes suddenly alert, the triangle of ears in her head suddenly rigidly straight. The beastman tensed predatorily, her body suddenly coiled for motion. Her teacher inhaled deeply, appearing to scent the air. "Blood," she said. Goosebumps erupted on Lydia's skin.
"Do you hear that?" The Shaman whispered -- wide, urgent golden eyes made contact with hers.
Serche took off like an arrow, leaving behind a confused Lydia to scramble in her wake. The woman tore through the forest haphazardly, fear brewing in Lydia's gut as she imagined what could put such urgency in the Rakan's legs. Together, the pair ran in a straight direction. Lydia briefly wondered what Trasnu would say -- they didn't care about their tracks and the noises they were making at all.
But then after several minutes, Lydia knew exactly what Trasnu would say;
Nothing. Because the man was dying, slung on the shoulders of a struggling Aaron.
The young man was in a bad state; on his knees, his breathing audible and ragged. He did not react at all as Serche broke through the undergrowth, merely breathing louder and continuing his labor. The sight of her friend unconscious and bleeding shocked Lydia so much that the trip back to their camp became a haze of grunts, exertion and horrified encouragements. She swam on a syrupy haze of confusion and sudden fear. She clung tightly to Aaron.
"You'll be fine," she murmured for both Aaron, and herself.
They had the wounded beastman lie in dry ground of the great hall, on a hasty pallet made of leaves. Serche rattled off rapid instructions that she couldn't remember but somehow was able to do. Lydia couldn't even recall fetching the bowls of water that the Shaman used to clean the wound. She only took notice of it after the deed was done, as she held Aaron beside her, the both of them watching the Shaman work.
Aaron babbled, confused and afraid. A tumble of words spewed from his mouth and sometimes they almost made sense -- if he wasn't shivering and panting from exhaustion in equal measure. He breathed too deeply and too often, twitching and trembling where he sat on the ground. Lydia cradled the terrified young man, tucked his head into her shoulders and whispered soothing words at him. Lydia reached into herself and then out into Aaron. He was all over the place; the fear and the shock of his experience felt sour, like sweat and tears and vomit but crawling on her skin.
She didn't think. The energies in her shifted, moving in a sluggishly progressive way, circulating in time with her breathing. As they moved somehow they caught up the young man's emotions in their current, giving it a flow, giving it regularity, giving his emotions harmony. He began to breathe deeper, although he still shuddered every time he exhaled, like he was freezing.
"He's dead, isn't he?" He whispered against her chest.
Lydia didn't react, simply shushed him and stroked his hair, despite the dread that settled on her stomach at his words. She really wished that she felt horrified at the loss of a friend -- but first and foremost on her mind is what the death of Trasnu meant for their survival. "That's not true," she whispered, hating herself.
"It's because of me. I couldn't carry him fast enough. If I had... I could feel him bleed all over me..." Aaron shuddered, and audibly mastered his breathing. Lydia hugged him a little tighter.
