Faetality |✓|

Chapter Nineteen, Part Two - Gone With the Wind

Westley was in worse shape than I thought. I had to drive his car to his home, and help him up the wooden porch steps. It was a small, white house in a quiet neighborhood - surreptitious and out of the way, not unlike Tanise's apartment. I used his keys to unlock the front door, allowing him time to gently set the blade against the wall before helping him across the dim room to a black, leather couch. As I searched for the light switch he sat down, gingerly, and slowly began to remove his jacket.

I found the switch and the room was flooded with light. It was sparsely furnished - a few couches, a coffee table, a modest television on an old, wooden entertainment center. But what stood out the most were the books. Books of all sizes and shapes were in stacks everywhere - on the floor, against the wall, piled on the coffee table. A dark hallway led to another section of the house and in there I could see volumes on the floor as well.

"You're a slob," I announced, more joke than accusation. "And a book hoarder. Are you a closet nerd, Westley?" Briefly, I picked up a novel from the floor - a first edition of Tolkien's Hobbit.

"Might be," he grunted, letting his jacket fall to the floor. That's when I noticed the blood. It had stained the left side of his white t-shirt a bright red. I had known he was hurt, but not this badly.

"Westley, you've been stabbed! Why didn't you say anything?"

"It's just a scratch. I'll be fine."

But even as he said this I noticed how ashen his face had gone. He sighed and leaned back against the couch.

"There's scotch in that cabinet," he said, nodding towards the entertainment center. "Bring it here."

I opened my mouth to argue and Westley shot me a murderous look, so for once I didn't argue and simply did as he commanded.

"I can make you Ambrosia," I offered, handing him the heavy, glass bottle. Half of the brown liquid in it was already missing.

"Won't help," he replied with a wince before readjusting in order to take several deep drafts of the alcohol.

"Well then I really think we should get you to a doctor,"

"No," Westley shook his head. "I'll heal me'self."

"You can do that?" I replied, trying to keep the worry and the fear from my voice.

Westley took another drink.

"I'm the fuckin' Sorcerer. I can do anythin' love."

"Yeah, ok, but... isn't there something I can do for you? Is there someone I can call?"

"No friends, no family, and that's the way I like it," he said, swinging his legs onto the couch and lying back.