Bleed For Me

THERE’S A GIRL WHO LIKES TO ROAM places she likely shouldn’t. A girl who’s been told to be whoever she wants to be, but not to stray too far from home–lest strangers’ assumptions of her break her heart. She stands tall enough to see over a horse’s back, yet she walks through the forest over roots and twigs on foot. She carries nothing but a satchel over her shoulder, and a basket in her hand with not an ounce of fear. One may think this to be an exaggeration, but this young woman is a very peculiar child.

She knows this forest path isn’t any old forest path. (Well in fact, it isn’t a path at all–just one she’s made up in her head.) It leads to a clearing where there lies a field of ruins–a village long gone that those who have the money to reconstruct it haven’t even spared the thought. Gray, stone buildings are scattered in pieces across the land that she so carelessly enters. Exploring is a routine thing for her–and so is hiding and fleeing when she senses trouble her father would be livid to hear she’d been involved in.

Pretty quickly as she steps into the demolished civilization, she hears a groan. She ducks down preemptively, and stays to listen. She hears weak sounds of agony, but nothing else. So, eventually, she comes out of hiding. With caution, she moves to investigate the sound, until she comes upon a man clad in ebony, lying on a cracked, stone floor. She remains on her feet to observe him for a moment, in case it proves to be some elaborate trick. However, she realizes he isn’t even awake–the man is having a nightmare. She crouches down, a hand discreetly on her hip against the hilt of her dagger.

After a few seconds, she can help herself no longer. Impishly, she pokes him–pressing her finger into his cheek. I mean, where else was she going to do it with all this heavy armor he’s got on?

Suddenly, the man’s ebony-clad arm launches up towards the woman, gripping it tight and digging its sharp metal claws into her linen-bound skin. The flesh curtains of his eyes reel back, revealing a glow–a reddish violet hue that strikes her soul. While he stares at her both in a pleading and terrifying sort of way, words start to leave his dry lips. “M… Must find them... Must… mu...” is all the man can get out before his head returns to the ground, his grip loosens, and his arm falls. A soft gasp leaves the woman, her own arm retreats, and her eyes go wide from the shock of it all. Yet, she welcomes the brief sensation of her heart racing.

Once the man falls unconscious again, she stares down at him with her eyes frozen in apprehension. After a minute or two passes, she lifts herself from her crouching position just enough to peak out into the ruins. She scans her surroundings once more, then looks back at the man. Her gaze now is one of sympathy, but more on the neutral side. Somehow, as alarming as this stranger’s circumstance may seem from an outside perspective, the woman isn’t terribly worried. Her head tilts minutely as she views this situation like a puzzle.

There’s no way I could lift him… She glances around once more, then crouches beside him even closer. Looking at him now, her face is purely indifferent. She leans down, pressing her fingertips into the side of his neck to feel for a pulse. Well, she feels something–however faint. Next, she moves her hand towards his eye, and presses her fingertips above and below each lid to pry it open. At this distance, she takes note of all his features. The man’s skin is ivory–though not as pale as the girl’s. She can tell by the contrast as she compares her hand to his cheek. His hair is short, sleek black–though his bangs are a bit messy and long. He has the face of a man who’s seen danger; who summons an excess of vitality into his being to chase it. Though these kinds of men (like the woman’s father) will find that vitality fading fast when their chase is over.

No daunting glow… but his eyes are like sapphires. The woman leans forward, rejecting not the long, straightened locks that fall over her shoulders. Her hair has been a pain to grow, and she refuses to have it cut. It is important to her, and cascades down her back and around her face like a waterfall, showing shades of dull blue at dawn. With both hands on either side of the man’s face, she pinches his cheeks, and starts to move them around like you would when teasing a small child. As she does this, the armor around him begins to dissipate. As if it were an illusion made of black dust, it flows off of his body and is carried away by an unseen and unfelt wind. Now, the man is left in nothing but a dirty cotton shirt and simple pants. The woman looks him over in wonder–her muted, ocean-blue eyes fluttering and wide. While her gaze leisurely returns to his face, she finds a necklace–something very intricate and stunning. My… Even mother would be jealous. His earrings are beautiful too. And… what’s this?

The girl moves a hand to one of the man’s ears. So pointy… Her own ears and all those she’s seen before are smaller and rounded. She doesn’t stop herself from pinching the stanger’s ear delicately between her fingers as if he were some kind of animal in a petting zoo. The man still refuses to wake, and so she finds herself staring at his motionless face. Her hands rest at her sides as she sits back on her shins and ponders. Well, she contemplates a bold idea–this might be my only option. She raises a hand yet again, but plans to take no gentle action. Instead, she ruthlessly slaps him across the face. The sound of the impact in the calm air sends a bird on one of the broken walls flying away.

The man’s body shudders, he gasps, and lays his palm against his cheek now red from the assault. “What in the hells was that!?” He yells as he’s jolted awake. His eyes scan the ruins while he catches his breath and props an arm up behind him to lift his torso off the ground. Finally, he takes notice of the girl beside him, staring coldly like a very realistic, moving doll. Whatever she is, he has no sympathy for her as of now. He lunges for her, grabbing her by the arm. “What do you think you’re doing, huh?! Don’t you have any id… ugh.” He poses a furious question, but is interrupted by the pain of his injuries. He clutches his side with his free hand, and his gaze falls while his chin dips down.

The girl’s eyes widen once more as she leans back just slightly. And like before, she doesn’t seem all too fazed by the pain of his grip. “A wake up call…” She responds, her tone rather dull, and pitch a bit low–but with no foul intent in her voice. “It’s likely not safe for you to be out here like this.” She sets her free hand in her lap, letting him keep the other as it becomes a limp extension of her trapped arm. She stares at him with no visible emotion while he wrestles against the pain he’s in. “Um…” Then, she glances towards her satchel, opening the front flap to get to the water-skin inside. She holds it out to him with a simple question: “Would you like some water?”

The man swats her hand away. “I don’t need your charity. I’m perfectly fine...” His voice is gravelly and stern, and while he speaks he’s determined to bring himself to a stand. However, rather than get on his feet, he falls to one knee, gripping his abdomen where blood soaks his off-white and grimy garment. He pulls his hand off the wound and stares at his palm. He sees the blood as if he’d never expected to, and proceeds to breathe heavily, his gears turning slow.

“Oh?” The girl retorts. She observes him curiously–appearing somewhat apathetic. “That looks bad...” Her tone isn’t condescending, simply... void of anything really. “My mother knows a bit of healing magic.” She starts to lean to the side, getting a better look at his wound and the blood on his hand.

The stranger looks at her with a stern glare and attempts to stand again. He manages to gain his footing this time, and wastes none of it in walking away. “Don’t you realize what I am? No one would ever want to help me! Least of all without a price. You’d sooner wish to have me killed like the rest...” He glances around the clearing once more, feeling dreary and paranoid even under a bright blue sky. It seems he may be searching for something. ”I just... need blood...” He mutters this strange thing just loud enough for the girl to hear–not intentionally, but as if he’s forgotten about her presence already.

The girl blinks, her empty face unchanging, save for a subtly raised brow. “What do you mean? Are you a vampire?” She asks unabashedly, and proceeds to outstretch her wrist towards the man, her palm bent underneath while she pulls back her sleeve. “Here. Just don’t drink all of it.” She says–(and the tone she uses is scarily serious.)

The man nearly cracks his neck in turning his head to face her. He looks over his shoulder to stare at the girl sat contentedly behind him, as anger contorts his once so peaceful and charming face. “I am not–!” He shouts, then closes his eyes–deciding to take a deep breath and calm himself rather than expend more of his limited energy, “I am not… a vampire. It is… a complicated condition–alright?” He turns his body towards her, grunting with a swallowed agony while he clutches his wound. “And why... might I ask, would you offer me your blood?”

The young lady’s head tilts a little to the side, as if she were the one who ought to be confused. Though, her vacant expression hardly changes. She takes a moment to ponder, all while keeping eye contact with this mysterious (and by all sane accounts–intimidating man).

Finally, she straightens her gaze and her posture. “Because you don’t seem like a bad person. You just seem… troubled. Plus,” she shrugs, “you’re pretty.” She says all this as if each sentence were a fact–her voice consistently monotone.

The man’s fiery countenance is turned on its head for a moment–like a raging bonfire at once magically contained into a harmless wisp on a candle’s wick. It takes him many seconds to process what the young woman said–and the absurd boldness of it. Due to his strong, yet vulnerable heart, his cheeks turn pink before he shakes his head as if to rid himself of the color. He begins to walk towards her with just a few words. “Fine, then. Hold out a finger.” He extends his hand toward her, but averts his gaze in a shy way–perhaps hoping the avoidance would diminish his embarrassment.

Usually, this young woman is as void of expression or any passion as a faceless statue–but… for some reason, the shock and rosy hint that appears on this man’s face makes her smile.