Her Protector

Scarlet and angry orange were the flames which illuminated his face as he slept, wrapped tightly in cloak and blanket, and curled close to the warmth. The light caught the dark shine of his skin and illuminated his long, neat fingers where they clutched the blanket in a futile attempt to keep out the cold. His head, with soft hair almost like black lambs wool trapped in a mass of impossibly tight curls, lay close to her own hand and her fingers itched to reach out and touch him. To caress his velvet skin and lay kisses across his soft cheeks and along the sloping bridge of his nose. It was so hard not to wake him and demand reassurance because the night seemed to be getting blacker and quieter too, closer and more still.

In her right hand she still held the dagger he had given her; it was a plain but sharp blade about ten inches long and as delicate as a needlepoint at the tip. She had never seen a blade so fine and nor had she expected it to feel so light as he had pressed her cold fingers around the hilt and told her in his deep, husky voice to wake him if anything changed.

Things had changed. The moon had tracked slowly across the sky, altering the shadows of the trees beyond their small fire, and it had grown colder forcing her to add more wood to the flames and crouch a little closer turning her back towards the heat so that the light did not ruin her night vision. But more than that the feel of the night had changed, she could no longer hear the soft scurrying of animals nearby nor the flick of bats on stealthy wings, all she could hear was the intense silence of the night and the regular sounds of his breathing which threatened to hypnotise her as she stared out into the endless darkness unaware of the passage of time.

Then there was sound. Logs collapsed into the fire sending a flurry of dazzling sparks into the air and making her jump but disguised by the seeming explosion of noise was something else, something unnatural like the scrape of a weapon sliding from a scabbard, almost but not quite hidden.

Before she realised what she was doing she had touched him. His eyes sprang open as if he had been awaiting the contact and his intense, dark eyes met hers questioningly.

“I‘m not sure,” she whispered, her voice caught by the breeze, “I‘m sorry.”

His smile made his beautiful eyes sparkle in the firelight, he was not angry and relief flooded through her rushing in her ears so that she missed whatever slight sound made him cock his head, his eyes becoming distant and his body tense. He made no sound as he rolled from his blankets and somehow his sword was in his hand without her seeing him make any move to draw it.

You were right to wake me his eyes seemed to say even as he gestured, a slight curl of a delicate digit, for her to accompany him and she rose, attempting to move with the night as he had taught her. The cloak would only hamper her so she unclasped it and let it slide from her shoulders with a whisper of the wind so that they became almost the same sound, the one lost within the other.

He walked away from the fire making no obvious attempt at stealth but rather adopting a light and uneven rhythm to his steps so that the tiny sounds of his footfalls seemed at one with the call of the wind in the grass and the boughs overhead. She tried to mimic him but did not do nearly so well, the grass was damp and rasped past the leather of her leggings but he did not look back to chastise her so she moved on, trying to keep pace and keep silent at the same time.

He had stopped, she could not tell why nor where he looked for the firelight did not reach this far and his dark skin was muddled with the darkness of the night but the tension in his body was unmistakable and made him seem like a spring which uncoiled in the instant the attack came.

The attacker was a mass of dark shadows except for the long, naked blade in his hand which flicked toward her protector reflecting and magnifying the light of the moon. She stepped back abruptly, giving no thought to masking the sound and the attacker hesitated, he had not known she was there and she cursed her own stupidity.

The two men circled in the hazy moonlight their blades ringing together overhead, disturbing the silence and destroying the peace. She could distinguish between the shadow forms which fought in the damp grass, neither making a sound beyond horse breathing and clashing blows, her protector was so familiar that she could recognise him even in near darkness and without any detail. He was the man to her right, slim and elegant despite his strength and moving with easy grace to the attack. The other man was heavier set, more of bulky muscle than lean tendon, and his sword work was of anger and brute strength rather than skill and speed. She hated the night which denied her his features for a single look would tell her if he were hard pressed or if this enemy, as so many before him, was a mere inconvenience.

The blows went on and on making the air sing and seem alive with sound until suddenly the enemy’s broad back was facing her and her protector’s eyes were caught by the moonlight. He seemed to invite her, to draw her closer and then, startled, she realised that he watched the blade which she still held in her icy fingers.

They fought on and on, no more did they circle wearily but rather her dark man kept his opponent’s back to her and kept him so intent upon the blows they exchanged that he did not hear her as she drifted closer. Panic threatened her, never in her life had she done another harm but he had protected her so often and now she could help him so she pushed the feeling down, slowed her racing heart and reached out like the cold fingers of the night.

So intent upon the fight was her enemy that he remained unaware of her embrace until she pulled him close and drove the dagger home. It met resistance and she heaved with every muscle to drive the fine point through the leather of his jerkin and to angle the blade up under his rib cage so that she imagined the point buried deep in his beating heart.

He made no attempt to fight her off and his sword fell from his hand as the blood began to pulse from the wound and his last breath gurgled in his throat before the silence of the night once more returned. She stood there, blade buried deep, supporting his weight until it became too much of a burden and he dragged her to her knees in the wet grass. The dew chilled her in an instant and she let go of the blade to wrap her arms around herself attempting to still the shivers which suddenly, inexplicably, seized her body.
And then he was there beside her. With one hand he recovered her small blade and made sure of the man by slitting his throat while with the other he gently gathered her up and supported her, generously sharing his confidence and warmth and removing her from the horror of warm blood which had covered her hands and soaked into the sleeve of her shirt.

“Thank you,” he breathed into her hair as he lead her away and with that he erased her guilt. He had needed her help and what she had done meant nothing more than that she had given it and giving it willingly. She gave herself up to his confident care and let him wash away the blood along with the memory so that, by dawn, only his love would seem entirely real.