The stranger was back before long, and Rose didn’t miss the flash of
relief on his face when he saw her standing where he had left her. He
carried with him a bowl of water, steam rising in tendrils from the
surface, and an assortment of other supplies. When he reached her he
continued on past, beckoning her to follow, and Rose turned to see him
heading toward a small seating area near the door. A low, backless sofa
ran along the wall, each end lifting to curl in a tight spiral. An
equally low table stood in front of the sofa, and two matching chairs
framed either side.
After a moment of hesitation, Rose took a seat
on the sofa, and the stranger placed the bowl and supplies on the table
before lowering himself hesitantly to sit beside her. He gave her a
questioning glance as if asking for permission, and Rose offered her
wounded palm. She kept quiet, not wanting her barrage of questions to
break the trance she felt from his calming influence. The man chose a
soft cloth from the pile on the table, dipped it in the warm water and
began to gently wash the blood from her hand. She winced when the water
stung the cut, and the man grimaced in apology.
As he worked, the
lace cuff fell back from his left hand and the sleeve of his jacket rode
up slightly. Rose caught a glimpse of something thick and dark winding
around his arm. It appeared to have the texture of an old scar, thick
and ridged, but jet black and stark against his pale blue skin. It grew
thinner the further down it reached, tapering out into thin tendrils at
his wrist, leaving the skin of his hand smooth and untainted. Rose felt
his hands falter in their movements against hers, and she looked up to
see him following her gaze to his wrist. He self-consciously pulled the
cuff back down into place, covering the black lines, and Rose hastily
looked away.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. He didn’t respond, only
retrieved the cloth and began wiping blood from her other hand. Once
both were clean, he let the cloth fall into the now pink-tinged water,
and took a bandage from the table. He paused for a moment, before
setting the bandage back down unopened.
“You must have a lot of questions,” he said softly, not quite meeting her eyes.
A
startled laugh escaped Rose’s throat. That was the understatement of
the century. He gave a soft chuckle and she realized she had voiced the
thought aloud.
“Yes, I imagine that must be true.” He turned to
face her directly, and his eyes met hers. She was alarmed at the
intensity in their purple depths, and his voice was urgent when he spoke
again, the words coming fast.
“Listen, I’ll explain everything, I promise. But you’re not safe here, and I need you to trust me.”
Rose opened her mouth, but he continued before she could respond.
“I know we’ve only just met, but I
promise
I won’t let any harm come to you. There’s so much you need to know, and
so little time, and I—” he paused, seeming to exert quite a bit of
effort to gather himself. He took a deep breath and lifted his eyes to
hers. “Will you trust me?”
His gaze bored into her, and without
the slightest idea why, Rose found herself nodding. Anything to get that
look of desperation off his face.
He seemed to wilt, relief
coloring his features, and he held out his hand for hers again. She
placed her wounded hand in his, and he flipped it over, palm up. Lifting
his other hand, he gently placed his index finger against the gash in
her palm, and without warning, a burst of light emanated out of his
fingertip where it met her skin.
Rose felt strangely detached, as
if she were watching this happen instead of actually experiencing it.
She felt no pain, only a bright, comforting warmth that grew to
encompass her whole hand. He traced his finger slowly down the length of
the wound, the bright light following the path of his finger, and Rose
watched in surprise as the line of her blood began to glow bright, the
same iridescent glimmer she had noticed when she’d touched the handle of
the door what seemed like ages ago.
Rose watched in wonder as the
stranger lifted his hand, the light fading. The shimmer faded from her
palm as well, the wound sealing in its wake.
“There,” he said,
releasing her hand. His voice sounded faint, its resonance muted. Rose
looked up, sensing something was off, and found his face pale, nearly
white, the silver lines practically nonexistent.
“Are you okay?”
she asked, suddenly worried for this man—creature—she didn’t know, but
he simply nodded and waved off her concern. She looked down at her palm
again in amazement, a thin faded line all that remained of the red gash.
“What
was
that?” she asked, “How did you—” But her attention was caught quite
suddenly by his hands, which were clutched tightly in his lap. He held
his right hand wrapped protectively around the left, but past his grip
Rose could see the black lines moving on his skin, creeping slowly
beyond the edge of his cuff and onto the back of his hand, tendrils
snaking across the pale flesh there.
