The night had passed, and the man still hadn't woken up. Elisabeth sighed, running a hand over her tired face before approaching the bed. With careful movements, she took a cloth dampened with warm water and wiped the sweat beading on the stranger's forehead. Her fingers trembled slightly as she changed the bandage, replacing the medicinal herbs with fresh ones.
"It's all I can do for you," she murmured, watching the man's chest rise with difficulty.
A sudden thought made her shudder: "What if he dies? My God, what will I do with a corpse! Will they accuse a poor herbalist of his death?" She surprised herself by mentally calculating how deep she would have to dig in the frozen ground to get rid of the body, and the absurdity of the situation elicited a nervous snort.
She decided to distract herself with routine. She fed Falko, prepared a frugal breakfast for herself, and went out to collect herbs, although her mind kept returning to the cabin. Throughout the day, between drying plants and hauling firewood, her eyes unconsciously searched for any change in the man. But he remained still, his breathing barely perceptible under the blankets.
As night fell, while cooking a simple dinner, Elisabeth left the bedroom door ajar to keep an eye on the stranger. The aroma of onion soup filled the air, mingling with the smoke from the chimney. Suddenly, Falko burst into the kitchen, his fur bristling and barking fiercely towards the room, backing up until he bumped into Elisabeth's legs.
"Falko, enough!" she scolded, without taking her eyes off the pot. "Your food is almost ready, no need for this fuss."
Completely forgetting the presence of the stranger resting in her bed, she assumed that the dog was simply impatient to eat, but something in the stiffness of his body and the tone of his growls made her frown. Just as she was about to turn around, a creak from the room paralyzed her.
She gently put down the wooden spoon, replacing it with another utensil.
A stabbing pain in his side was the first thing he felt upon emerging from unconsciousness. His eyelids felt like lead, and when he finally managed to open them, the light of the fire made him squint. Wooden ceilings blackened by smoke, log walls... Where the hell was he?
The aroma of onions and herbs cooking mingled with the smell of damp wool and burning firewood. A female voice hummed something in the distance, interrupted by the deep barks of a dog. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his torso prevented him. Noticing that he was only wearing his underwear, a wave of cold that had nothing to do with the temperature ran through him. With clumsy movements, he wrapped himself in the rough sheet covering the pallet.
"Who dared to touch me without my permission?" he muttered through his teeth, scrutinizing the room with a hawk's gaze.
His fingers found a pair of pruning shears on a nearby table. He gripped them with determination, feeling the cold metal against his palm. As he stepped onto the wooden floor, it creaked slightly under his weight. He held his breath, but the dog's barking intensified.
He advanced stealthily towards the source of the sounds. In the kitchen, a female figure with her back turned stirred a pot over the fire. Her blonde hair, so long that it brushed the curve of her hips, shone with the reflection of the flames. The dog - a wolfish beast with yellow eyes - growled, baring his fangs, cornering against the woman's legs.
Just as he raised the shears, she turned around. The kitchen knife in her hand gleamed, menacing.
"What bad manners," she said with an irony that contrasted with the sharpness of her voice. "Is it customary in your land to point weapons at someone who saved your life?"
Her green eyes, vibrant as moss in spring, clashed against the stranger's blue ones, cold as the ice of a winter lake.
"And is it customary in yours to strip a wounded man and point knives at him?" he retorted, adjusting his grip on the shears. He noticed how the woman clenched her jaw, although she kept the weapon steady.
"I only took off your clothes to heal your wounds!" she protested, a flush rising up her neck. "Don't expect me to regret it."
The dog advanced a step, growling with every syllable his owner uttered:
"Put down those shears or Falko will show you how we treat the ungrateful around here."
The man hesitated at Elisabeth's words. The shears fell from his hands not by will, but because the pain betrayed him. His knees buckled, and he began to stagger like a tree about to be felled by an ax.
She dropped the knife instantly.
"Damn it!" She ran towards him and held him just as he was about to collapse.
But instead of gratitude, she received a growl full of venom:
"Who gave you permission to touch me?" the man spat, his voice laden with arrogance even though his face was contorted with suffering.
Elisabeth frowned, looking at him as if another head had just grown on him.
"I prefer to think you're delirious with fever," she said, turning towards the room.
"I'm more lucid than you'd like," he replied instantly, fixing her with blue eyes full of distrust.
She clenched her teeth until her jaw cracked.
"Do you want me to let go of you? Well, I'll let go," she threatened.
But she didn't. And she answered herself. "If he falls, I'll have to carry him again, and once was enough."
However, when she finally deposited him on the bed, she did so with deliberate brusqueness. The man writhed in silence, but his gaze... that cornered beast look could have made anyone back down.
"And he still has the nerve to look at me like that," Elisabeth thought, feeling anger burning her cheeks.
"Who are you? Who ordered you to do this?" he demanded with a commanding tone, as if he were used to his questions getting immediate answers.
She didn't dignify the question with an answer. She frowned again and left the room without looking back, ignoring his demands. Falko remained at the door, his fur bristling and growling with every movement of the intruder.
"Damn woman!" she heard the man curse. "And that infernal beast...!"
Minutes later, Elisabeth returned carrying a bowl of steaming water, a glass jar with a greenish content, and rolls of clean bandage. She placed them firmly on a chair next to the bed.
"You're bleeding again," she pointed out coldly, avoiding his gaze. "I must heal you before you bleed out like a pig at slaughter."
"And you dare to compare me to a pig?" the man growled, bringing a hand to his bleeding side. The pain clouded his vision for an instant, but he didn't take his blue eyes off her.
"And are you?" Elisabeth replied with a defiant voice full of sarcasm, crossing her arms. "I don't know who you are or what you did to end up like this. And frankly, I don't care. But if you want to live, you should accept my help without so much rudeness."
The stranger fell silent. His gaze descended towards the wound that stained the bandage red, then towards his own trembling hands. He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. "If I want to return soon, I need to recover... I'll have to tolerate this woman for now. But I'll find out what she's up to."
As he thought this, he watched with resentment as Elisabeth, noticing his silent acquiescence, approached with precise movements. Her hands worked with surgical efficiency: she removed the stained bandage, cleaned the wound with warm water that burned like fire, applied an herbal ointment that smelled like a forest after the rain, and finally bandaged it with strips of clean linen. All without uttering a word.
When she finished, she left the room and returned minutes later with his clothes - now clean and perfectly folded - which she placed next to the bed.
"I can help you get dressed," she offered in a neutral tone, as if she were talking about the weather.
The man frowned as if he had been spat on.
"Damn it, no!" he snorted, recoiling as if her proximity burned him.
She shrugged indifferently.
"As you wish," she said, and left again, letting the wooden door creak shut behind her.
Still, as she walked away, she could feel the weight of that icy gaze fixed on her back. As arrogant and rude as the intruder was, a part of her understood him: after brushing with death, it was natural that he distrusted even his own shadow.
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