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I stagger back against a tree. Two worgs are dead, and two are injured enough that they won’t attack. The last one growls at me for a moment, but finally decides to retreat with his wounded companions. The moment it turns and disappears into the forest, I finally let myself slump down.
“By the gods,” I gasp. The world is spinning around me, and things are getting dimmer. For a moment, I see a human shape stepping out of the trees towards me.
It’s her,I realize.Finally, I got my chance to see her.
As I continue to sink down and grow fainter, I smile. It certainly wasn’t how I planned to draw her out, but at least I managed it.
She wanted to know what kind of a warrior I am. Now she’ll get to see the real test of any warrior’s character. How they die.
10
LORELAI
Icreep closer.Is he unconscious? Is he pretending? Or is he…
No, he certainly isn’t dead. His chest is still rising up and down. But he’s lost a lot of blood, and the weariness in his body looks very real. And yet, somehow, he’s fought the worgs off. Worgs never retreat from combat unless they’re afraid of an enemy.
I don’t know if I could have survived if it had been me the worgs had attacked. Frankly, I didn’t expect him to.
It would be easy to finish him right now. It would be safer, too. He’s a potential hitch in all the things I was planning. I don’t know what it is he wants or what he’s willing to do to get it. If I just put an arrow in him right now, he’d be dealt with forever. I would never have to worry about him getting in my way again.
I kneel down and pull an arrow out of my quiver. I fit it to the string of the bow, pull it back, and aim it directly at his throat.
All I have to do now is let go.
But I don’t. I crouch there, looking at him, leaning tired and bloody against the tree.
Obviously, I should shoot him. Why should I leave a dangerous naga alive to interfere with my plans?
“In the condition he’s in, it would really be something of a mercy,” I mutter.
So why aren’t I shooting?
I try to convince myself of several answers. That I don’t want to waste the arrow when he’s clearly bleeding to death anyway. That it’s wrong to kill an opponent who can’t fight back. That perhaps he might be useful to me.
But it’s none of those. In fact, it’s much simpler. The truth is that I’m simply fascinated by this man. I don’t want to kill him because it would mean never getting to understand him. And something tells me that never getting to understand him would mean never getting to understand a piece of myself, the piece that sees myself in him.
I slack the string of my bow and return the arrow to its place. Carefully, I creep closer to him. He doesn’t react.
Naga’s blood is darker than human blood and slightly thicker too. His wounds are gruesome to look at, but I can see now that they aren’t as deep as I thought at first. If he’s left like this, he will likely die, but he isn’t doomed. Even some pretty basic medical care can save him.
He would survive with the medical care I could provide for him.
But that’s taking this whole thing a little far. It’s one thing not to kill a naga, even one as dangerous as him. But to care for one? Wouldn’t that be like making myself into a slave for him? Aren’t I better than that?
“Maybe I am. But is it really better to leave someone to die?” I wonder.
My mother told me that we should always fight for love rather than hate, for the ones we want to protect rather than against the ones we want to protect them from. She said that many of the naga may well deserve our hatred, but we have no obligation to give it to them. We can choose not to be filled with anger, even if that anger is merited.
Then, she trusted someone who betrayed her, and she was killed by naga guards in front of me.
I don’t know what to learn from that. I would love to be the kind, smiling woman that my mother was. But I’ve never felt that circumstances have allowed me that possibility.
Suddenly, sitting opposite this mysterious naga in the forest, I feel that they finally have. Here is someone that I can care for. Here is a chance to show that I am more than a simple tool for revenge and violence.
“I am more than a tool for revenge and violence, aren’t I?” I ponder. I’m not convinced of the answer.
I pull out my satchel, open it, and douse a small cloth in one of the healing lotions I carry. I begin to dab it against his wounds, and he stirs awake, wincing.
