Sprunch's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Constilation swayed on his knees by the watering hole. Sprunch still stood on his hand. Up close, she saw how bad off he was. His skin ran cold and wet. A gash on his shin oozed under the torn cloth. His breath came in shallow pulls. This mortal she wanted was dying, and the sun was already low. She had never healed a man. She had never healed anyone. But if she did nothing, he would not last the night. "Lie down," she said. "By the flowers. Now." He blinked at her, dazed. "You give orders," he murmured. "For someone so small." But he obeyed. He crawled to the ring of tall blooms and slumped in the leaves. Sprunch flew to his shin and studied the wound. Grit and salt filled it. She knew the grove better than her own wings. She knew which petals cleaned and which ones stung. She worked fast. She tore soft leaves and soaked them in the still water. She pressed them to the cut and wiped the grit away. Constilation hissed and jerked. "Hold," she said, and pushed harder. She climbed to a low orange bloom and cracked its stem. Thick sap ran out. She smeared it across the wound to seal it. Then she flew to a cluster of red petals known to warm the blood. She dropped them one by one into his open mouth. "Chew," she told him. He chewed. Slowly his shaking eased. His breath went deeper. Still he was cold, and night crept in. Sprunch could not carry a blanket. She was no taller than his thumb. She flew up in a panic, unsure what to do next. Then a hard shape dropped through the dark. Her guardian bird, the same fierce bird that had thrown her onto his hand, landed on his chest. In her beak she held a beakful of dry moss and broad leaves. She dumped them on him and jabbed her head at Sprunch, sharp and impatient. Sprunch understood. She dragged the leaves over his body, tucking them close. The bird tore more from the grove and piled it on. Together they buried the mortal in a warm heap of green. He stopped shivering. His eyes slid shut. Sprunch pressed her ear to his chest and heard the beat, steady now. She sat there long into the night, small on his ribs. He would live. She had saved him with her own hands. But dawn would come, and he would wake strong. He would remember he was a man far from any sea, alone but for a fairy the size of his thumb. He might try to leave the grove. Or he might stay and want more than tending. Sprunch watched him breathe and knew the hard part was only starting. She had wanted a mate. Now she had a living, waking man, and no idea how to keep him.