It was the light of the moon that initially led him to believe that she was a waif or a lost spirit. Her milky hair was turned into liquid silver under the pale light and her alabaster skin looked as if it might have been powered in the dust of pearls. Everything about the mysterious young woman seemed otherworldly, so Alasdair had a hard time believing that he was not in the midst of a dream. After pacing an invisible circle around her three times, he dared to venture closer for confirmation of what his eyes were seeing.
Her eyes were wide open, but sightless as they lingered on the midnight sky hanging overhead. Intricate ribbons of black wound their way over the lengths of both her slender arms, making for an interesting tattoo that he'd never seen before. The only splashes of color that Alasdair had been able to pluck from her otherwise transient appearance were the deep echoes of purple in her obsidian eyes and the angry crimson stains that crept up the left side of her white dress. Alasdair felt the tension in his shoulders dispel upon coming to the conclusion that this was no divine being, nor was it a ghost. The young woman was human.
Alasdair found other beings exceedingly difficult to deal with.
"Miss, are you alright?" He barely raised his voice. There wasn't much to talk over in the dead of the night. "Miss?"
Her gaze did not waver and her body did not stir. He was not sure if she was deaf or dumb or simply ignoring him. His sapphire eyes turned up to meet the waxing moon, debating his next action within his head. All he wanted to do at this point was return to his humble home and rest for the night. He'd spent most of his day searching for a single sheep that had separated from the herd and he hadn't had any luck in finding it.
Now the enigma that came in the form of this woman was already deeply rooted in his curiosity. He looked back down at her, sprawled over what appeared to be a singed patch of grass in the middle of the open field. The woman was not all there, he decided, lowering himself into a crouch to better inspect the source of all the blood.
"That's a pretty bad scratch you've got," he observed, grimacing as he turned her arm over in his hand.
Alasdair glanced over her face, but it remained empty. The old scarf around his neck was tugged free so he could begin to wind it around her wrist. He tied it tight, staunching the bleeding as best as he could until he could give her the proper care she needed at his home.
"You'll be alright."
Shame on me…
Her utter was softer than a whisper and Alasdair was not sure that he really heard her say anything at all. Nevertheless, he lifted her into his arms, finding her as light as he expected her to be, and started what would be a long walk home.