The Wandering God

47 Only When the Year Grows Cold 2/3

歲寒知松柏
Suì hán zhī sōng bǎi
Only when the year grows cold do we see the qualities of the pine and cypress.
Adversity reveals virtue.

*~*~*~*~*~*

I did not make it far.

We had scarce turned the bend in the road when the sky spun around me, the snow whirling doubly as I sank to the ground.

At first I thought my dizziness was caused by my fall from the outcrop with the flint eyed man, and some trauma to my head.

But that was not it. Blood still seeped from my shoulder, from where I had pulled out the bolt. The wound was deep, and I had bled too much.

I should have bound the wound immediately.

It was snowing in haste now. Red ran from my fingers to the snow like dark wine staining white silk.

"Ao?" Zakhar crouched beside me. "Let me carry you."

"No. You are injured as well," I said, indicating the bolt in his arm and thigh, and the countless other cuts. "I will heal, as I always do. Just give me time." I took a deep breath. The cold air pricked the inside of my chest.

"Let me carry you," Zakhar said again. "We should get out of the snow."

"No Zakhar. I do not need- Zakhar!"

Zakhar had ignored me, and scooped me up in his arms as carefully as he could. One thick arm looped behind my back and the other one under the bend of my knees.

"Zakhar! Put me down!" I tried to push out of his arms. "You are injured as well! You do not need to-"

My leg accidentally kicked against the crossbow bolt in his thigh. Zakhar gave a hiss of pain, and his jaw clenched as he fought against it.

"If you hold still, it doesn't hurt. Now hold still," he said through gritted teeth.

I did, surprised by the force in his tone. He had never spoken that way to me before.

Me in his arms, Zakhar continued his slow, limping trudge back to our horses.

The snow had started to stick, catching against small rocks and raised ridges in the road. Zakhar's boot slipped, causing him to grunt as my weight jerked his injured shoulder.

"Zakhar, please put me down," I said softly.

He ignored me. His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, carefully placing his boots on the newly icy surface.

I leaned my head back against Zakhar's arm, trying to hold myself as still as possible. The air was icy, and filled with wind, but this close I could feel Zakhar's scent. The warm familiar smell that I had never smelt anywhere else but close to him.

I watched Zakhar's face as he stared at the road before us. I studied the arch of his brow, the curve of his lips. I wondered if those lips were even fuller and pinker than mine.

Above the sky was a mess of grey and whirling white as snow flurries continued to fall, harder and harder. It would be a full on storm by tonight.

The tops of trees poked against my vision with each of Zakhar's steps. Tall, dark spruce, reaching up into the grey storm. They would stand fast tonight, no matter how it snowed, as warm blooded creatures like us scattered to find shelter.

The wind picked up, gusting around us, blowing crystals of snow into my eyes. When the cold wind hit my arm, sticky wet with my own blood, I felt it's chill and shivered.