The knight lay on her bed, his armor propped against the wall. The shine had been dimmed from years of use. A heavy hunk of scuffed metal, which could no longer be called a sword, was also propped against the wall. Faded engravings, nicks, and chips decorated the blade. The sword looked unusable, a badly aged relic of the past. But if she looked long enough at it, it would slowly start to resemble a sword until she blinked, and then it was just a hunk of metal again. With the help of Jenn, Geolf, and Fredin, some of the younger village men, she was able to get the stranger to her home. The wrestling match with his armor was an entirely different battle. He now lay, eyebrows pressed together from pain or from nightmares. She could not tell.
Putting her hand on his forehead, she closed her eyes and focused, pushing away thoughts and questions. In her mind's eye, she could see the outline of his figure. An androgynous form in the darkness of her mind. She pushed her Chaos into his body; it traveled from within her a storm of alternating sensations, ice-cold to burning-hot until it passed through her hand. It entered his Chaos streams. They, like veins, flowed through the body, and as her Chaos traveled, a map was slowly drawn onto the figure. The Chaos interrupted in damaged areas, leaving behind areas of darkness before continuing further.
Wounds could not stop Chaos. Nothing could. It was an unstoppable force. Once it entered something, it would travel through the whole before returning to its owner or being stored by the receiver. In this case, Chaos returned to her hand and back into the core of her body.
The knights’ injuries were severe. Large chunks of blackness stained the outlines of his body, which otherwise glowed with intricate pathways. Although she had already tried healing him, some wounds were too deep for her to fix, injuring not only the body. She had healed the gapes which painted the man’s body. There had been too many to count. Like a morbid drawing, his body was carved red and blue. There had been no time to wonder what could have done this to a knight. The wounds had healed and closed up, leaving behind smooth scars. As if he had not just been laying one foot in death’s door moments away.
She could not heal scars. Minor injuries didn’t leave anything behind. Significant injuries- she looked over the scared body of the knight. They left their mark like morbid reminders. She too had a few such scars.
The man had been lucky—lucky that her innate ability was healing. That was true luck. It was even astounding. Had the man’s desperation been what had called her into the woods? The pleas of his soul asking to be saved. She scoffed; no, what she had felt back then was not desperation; it was sinister. Glancing at the hunk of metal near the wall, a shudder ran down her spine.
The man had a terrifying aura. It was impending. Even in such a vulnerable position, she felt like a rabbit in the presence of a mad wolf. No- something much scarier- something more frightening than she had ever felt. It felt as if one wrong move and she would be swallowed by his aura. Yet even then, she couldn’t have left him. If only she could save one more life, maybe it would redeem her just a little more. Perhaps it would help calm them down. They haunted her, followed her, whispered to her. Why did you let us die? They often tortured her in the middle of the night. Their voices were hidden in the wailing of the wind. It was always the wind. The storms had their ways of bringing back the dead.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Gazing back at the wounded beast, she let herself, for the first time, actually look at him. His flowing black hair fell in waves so black they could be darkness themselves. They almost seemed to swallow the candlelight. He was pale, not a southerner. A black mustache and stubble framed his full lips. His nose was more prominent, but it did not take away from his features. The bridge straight and narrow. Like a crow with dark black feathers and a majestic beak. His eyebrows are as black as his hair. He was muscular and tall. Much taller than her, it had taken 3 men to get him back to her house. There was no denying that the knight was handsome. And somehow, he reminded her of the night. Looking at him was like looking at the night sky. A child of the Lunias, she thought.
She pushed Chaos into his body again; this time, she manipulated it and let it flow over his body, blanketing him in a low glow. His eyebrows eased up. All she could do was keep him comfortable. She did not know anything about injuries of the soul. This man’s survival was entirely out of her hands. Had she had more materials on the weaving of souls or the weaving of healers, maybe she would have been able to help. But all she had was all she knew. She had inherited her mother’s healing, but there was little she remembered about her mother and little her mother had left behind to be remembered by. Unlike the relics of her father, nothing remained from her mother but the Chaos.
Weaving was a demanding endeavor. It required the use of one’s Chaos in combination with an outer source of Chaos. This source was most often the primordial source that existed in every facet of nature. Chaos which was gifted to the world when it had been created by Solias and Lunias. In rare cases this source was from another’s. Healers being those who most often dealt with rare cases. Everyone had Chaos flowing through their bodies; not everyone had the power to manipulate it. A healer could interweave their Chaos into someone else and manipulate it to restore it. Closing wounds, easing fevers, filtering poison, minimizing pain, and so on. The more she used her own Chaos, the longer she would have to restore it, and she had used a lot. The inner powers were not unlimited, unlike the primordial energies. She stopped pushing the Chaos and lifted up a shaking hand. Her reserves were all but drained. Once drained, she wouldn’t be able to pull from the Chaos of the environment.
The storm outside had picked up again. The wind grew louder and more robust. It shook the hut. The windows had been closed, curtains tied to the walls to help keep the wind out, and the wooden shutters secured in place. The storm could easily break them if they were to be kept open. The fireplace was burning a large pile of wood near it. They had to be ready for a brutal storm. The Chaos of the storms still churned her, but it was less so now that she was drained and her abilities dulled. The storm was getting closer. Glancing at the resting knight, she sighed. They were in for a hard time. The wind howled, letting out a deafening scream; in its passing, she could hear them.
The Chaos had its ways. It was a mysterious entity. The storms brought with them creatures who thrived in the Chaos, the Regrens or Chaos nymphs, who fed on fear and regret. They read your mind and bought out the memories you hated most. As in previous years, they were here for her, the formless shadows barely visible to the untrained eyes gathering around them.
You can’t save this one. The wind shrieked, the wood of the house bending and creaking under its prowess. The shadowy figures were almost blown away by it,thier apparitions wavering like a flame. You can’t save anyone. They yelled with the wind. Bringer of death. The chants of many screamed. Healer of none. The house shook. The useless shieldmaiden.
She made her way to the table littered with open books and sat down. It would be a sleepless night. The wind was far too loud to sleep, and the wind was far too full of her regrets. The nymphs followed her, dimming her view of the room as she tried to look past translucent bodies.