Chapter Eleven

Arandir POV
Arandir stared down at his mate, the despair from her dilemma reaching him through the bond they'd already begun to form. With gentle touches, he brushed the hair from her face as he cradled her to his chest. His mate was covered in gore, and her body shook as she was racked with tears. He was devastated to see her so.
Arandir knew these mountains had rivers flowing down them somewhere, and he had purposely chose a space to make camp that contained muddy soil. The muddier the soil, the closer the water. He hummed to the woman in his arms softly, a lullaby he'd been sung during his childhood. Arandir hoped it would help soothe her, as he stepped out of the battlefield and let his feet follow the mud.
It wasn't long before the sound of the river burbling and whispering through a copse of trees could be heard. Arandir pet Wynne's head gently. He carried her frail form to the water, slowly wading into the river. Holding her with one arm, he let the water wash away the sting and the blood from their injuries and clothes. He used his freed hand to gently rub away anything that had dried or was particularly stubborn.
"Mo ghràidh, I cannae express ta ye how sorry I am, for ye ta have experienced that." Arandir murmured to her. Feeling her emotions mingling with his own guilt for allowing that situation to happen had made the man use an accent he'd not used for at least a few hundred years. His fingertips brushed her cheek softly, as he briefly stared down at her sadly. Then, he began to lower them both further into the water. In the chaos of the fight, Wynne's long strawberry locks had gotten tangled. There were small twigs and leaves caught in her hair, and they were clumped together with blood, bile and dirt.
Carefully, he held onto her, cleaning her hair in the water. A small, child like grin enveloped his features when he finally succeeded in cleaning Wynne's hair. Arandir fully planned on treating her like a queen when they returned to some semblance of civilization. The fact that Wynne had been stolen from all she'd ever known, dropped into a world of monsters and magick, told she was bound to another for the rest of her life, and then ambushed and injured sat heavy on his shoulders. The thought immediately took the grin from his face, expression now grim.
He pulled Wynne from the water, immediately marching to the first dry patch he could find. He would have to return to the battlefield and the camp to retrieve their gear, but he needed to examine their injuries. Wynne was obviously in a state of shock, considering the woman hadn't had the energy to do much more than cling to him and cry yet.
The wash in the river helped, and she was calmer, but she had a haunted look in her eyes. As gently as he could, Arandir sat Wynne upon the ground. It took careful maneuvering, but he peeled the thing that had once been a perfectly good blouse from Wynne's stomach. Arandir scrutinized the woman's sides, his gaze like a hawk on the jagged red gashes he found there. Fingertips probed the wounds, checking for swelling, and any other damage he couldn't merely see. Wynne whimpered at the pain, recoiling from his touch and making Arandir wince as he muttered gruff apologies.
Only two were deep enough to need some sort of sutures, but multiple of the injuries were puffy with the starts of infection. They all appeared to be claw marks rather than wounds from some sort of weapon. Arandir leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.
"I'll return soon, mo ghràidh. I need to recover our supplies. " He whispered, giving the woman a last caress to the cheek before his departure.
Wynne POV
Wynne was disoriented, and the involuntary dip in the river had her already cold limbs covered in gooseflesh. The water had washed the majority of the filth away, leaving Wynne's skin appearing clammy and paler than usual. Her sides stung, and with adrenaline beginning to wear off, her injuries were beginning to hurt more and more.
The woman was in a state of distress, in turmoil about the lives she'd had to take. Even if they were menacing creatures that threatened her life. Logically, she knew she did what she had to do to survive. But the guilt from taking the life of anything hung heavy on her shoulders. So heavy, in fact, that Wynne didn't even notice Arandir returning from the camp.
She'd remained laying upon the ground, where Arandir had laid her. With the adrenaline slipping from her, and the onset of pain from her injuries, she hadn't the energy to move. She stared up at the lightening sky blankly. Arandir approached her slowly, setting a bag next to them as he took a spot at her side.
"You did what needed to be done, mo ghràidh. I promise, it will get better. " He told her, lifting one of her hands into his and giving it a gently squeeze. After kissing the back of her hand, he lowered it back to the ground and dug through the bag he brought for the supplies he needed.
Wynne stared at him as he pulled out a flask, a needle, and a spool of cotton thread. He also tore stops of cloth up, making her a makeshift bandage. With a muttered, 'this may sting, try not to move', Arandir set to work. He poured the contents of the flask over the needle and gave the remainder to Wynne. He knew she may need the liquid courage inside. After the mediocre sterilization of the needle, he quickly threaded it and began to stitch her wounds closed.
Wynne's face was contorted in a grimace as he worked. Stung was an understatement, stitches were an extremely uncomfortable feeling, and the process made her feel sick.
"Arandir, help me up and let's go? I'm so cold and I want away from here.. " She said slowly when he'd finished, her emerald hues staring up at him. Her words made the man jump, who immediately slung the bag upon his back. Gently, he lifted Wynne into his arms, cradled her against his chest, and began to walk.