The Door to Eternity

The man hit the floor with a sickening thud that echoed through the small cottage.

Amriel stood rigid, muscles taut, blade gleaming faintly in her hand as shadows flickered across the walls. For a long breath, the world seemed caught between beats, waiting for what came next.

"You have got to be kidding me," Amriel muttered, her voice laced with disbelief.

The past few days had been one absurdity after another. She'd thought she'd seen the worst of it. Apparently not as she found herself staring down at the stranger's prone form lying on her floor, covered from head to leather boots by a sodden dark cloak.

Suddenly, a violent gust of wind shattered her thoughts, slamming the door wide against the wall. The sharp impact made her flinch, for the door struck the shelves lined with books, her most prized possessions, and rattled them precariously.

"Shit," she hissed under her breath, the storm roaring through the opening, clawing at the warmth of the room. Cold tendrils spread throughout the cottage, making the flames in the hearth stutter and writhe. Shadows danced across the walls in erratic, frantic shapes, writhing as if alive.

"Alright, Riel, prioritize," she muttered, voice tight, "Door first. Then deal with…him."

Meeko raised his head, his large, silvery eyes catching the firelight as he met her gaze and chirped softly as if in agreement. The wild wind blew in to ruffle the forest cat's sleek black fur as he stood vigil over the stranger, nose twitching, while he sniffed at the man as though inspecting a puzzle yet to be solved. He didn't retreat and no longer snarled or hissed.

That was when she realized that he was...curious.

Amriel's breath hitched and she blinked, disbelieving. Curious?

That did not make sense.

Meeko didn't do curious. At least, not with strangers. The forest cat was the embodiment of feline skepticism, wariness was his default setting. In that sense, he was very much like his much smaller, domesticated cousins.

He'd come to tolerate Simon and Niamh after all these years because he knew that they would feed him and treat him kindly, but even that felt like a begrudging truce.

So what was it about this man, bleeding on her floor, that had bypassed Meeko's usual defenses? What did he sense that she didn't?

Before she could pursue that line of thought, the door slammed against the wall again with another gust of wind, demanding her attention.

Focus, Amriel! Focus.

Her eyes flicked between Meeko, who was crouching near the stranger with unsettling calm, and the door that banged relentlessly against the wall—and her books—with infuriating rhythm.

Palming her blade, Amriel kept the weapon close by her side as she cautiously stepped around the man sprawled out on her floor, keeping as much distance from him as her small home would allow.

With a hard shove, she forced the door shut, sealing off the savage storm outside and blocking out the relentless gusts and heavy rain from invading her small sanctuary. The latch clicked into place with a finality that echoed through the room, sealing the chaos outside where it belonged. Or so she hoped.

Chaos could very well be lying on her floor, bleeding out.

As she turned to rest against the door, a sharp whistle suddenly pierced through the air, sending a shiver down her spine and causing her already racing heart to leap into her throat.

For a moment, Amriel stood frozen, her senses sharpened as she strained to pinpoint the sudden, sharp sound cutting through the storm-muted quiet. It took a heartbeat longer than it should have for realization to dawn—the whistling came from the kettle she'd left over the fire. The piercing noise grew louder and more insistent.

By the gods, he was a tall man with long, well-formed limbs. He would probably stand even with Simon, though the blacksmith was much more heavily muscled from his days at the forge.

Amriel exhaled sharply, though her pulse still thrummed from the lingering tension. Once more, she edged cautiously back around the unconscious stranger on her floor, every nerve on edge. Her knuckles whitened around the hilt of her weapon as she braced for any sudden movement.

If he lunged now, the tight confines of her cottage would make it nearly impossible to evade his grasp.

Keeping her gaze flickering between him and the fire, Amriel moved swiftly, lifting the kettle from the iron hook with practiced ease. The whistle died in a sudden hiss of steam.

Setting the kettle aside, she forced herself to take a steadying breath. Her pulse slowed but didn't quite return to normal. The weight of the situation pressed against her chest like a heavy blanket—thick, suffocating, and impossible to ignore.

"Ok, now what to do with you?" she muttered under her breath, voice rough with unease.

Her teeth found her lower lip, gnawing anxiously as her eyes drifted back to the stranger.

In the flickering glow of the fire, she studied him more closely. His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, every breath wheezing like it had to claw its way free from his cracked lips. Damp strands of dark hair clung to his pale face, shadowing high cheekbones made gaunt by pain and exhaustion.

Nythia's voice rose unbidden in her mind, cool and commanding. "Do not waste the training you have been so fortunate to receive. Remember that."

Amriel flinched inwardly, bitterness flickering through her like an ember. She'd never quite lived up to her mother's relentless standards.

If I'm going to help him, I need to see the wound properly, she thought grimly. That meant turning him over.

She crossed the room in a few quick strides, dropping to one knee by her sleeping cot. Her fingers found the familiar edge of worn canvas beneath it, and she tugged out her bedroll. The fabric was rough but clean, and it would suit for now—at least better than the cold wood floor.

As she rose, Amriel's gaze flicked briefly to Meeko, who sat watchful near the stranger's head. The cat had settled enough to sit down, ears angled forward with curiosity rather than alarm. Meeko rarely misjudged people. That fact alone gave her the smallest sliver of hope.

"Guess you think I should trust him," she muttered softly. "I hope you're right."

Meeko's eyes shifted from the man to her, and she saw no fear in the large pools of silver that stared up at her. A slight tilt of his head, as if surprised she'd ever doubt him.

Amriel returned to the stranger's side, setting the bedroll down beside him in front of the hearth. Her hands hovered uncertainly for a fraction of a second before she forced herself into motion, biting back nerves.

"Alright," she breathed, gripping his shoulder carefully. "Let's see what kind of mess you've made of yourself."

Carefully, Amriel untied the drenched cloak from the man's broad shoulders to reveal a sword inside its sheath strapped between his shoulder blades and running down his back. The sodden cloak hit the ground with a heavy slap, the sound almost drowned out by the relentless storm battering the cottage.

Next, she undid the straps on the man's shoulders that held the blade in its place and set the sheathed sword aside.

Then, summoning every ounce of strength as she maneuvered his limp body onto his back as carefully as she could manage. Her muscles strained the effort wringing a soft groan from her lips. The weight of him pressed against her arms like lead.

"Come on," she muttered through gritted teeth, carefully rolling him onto the bedroll she'd laid out. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

Despite her care, the motion elicited a sharp cry from him, but he remained unconscious. His body sagged heavily as she finally managed to settle him. Breathless, Amriel knelt back on her heels and continued her assessment.

You can do this, she told herself fiercely, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. Do not waste what you have learned.

The words echoed hollowly in her ears, a mantra half-learned from her mother's relentless drills. Nythia's voice surfaced once more in her memory—sharp, critical, demanding perfection. "If you hesitate, they die. Simple as that."

Amriel swallowed hard, forcing the ghost of that voice back into the shadows where it belonged.

Beside her, Meeko had settled down to lie near the hearth beside the man's head. The forest cat's thick fur gleamed in the flickering firelight.

"Great," she muttered under her breath. "Even the cat's calmer than me."

The stranger's shallow breaths rasped through the stillness, drawing her focus back to him. She leaned over, peeling back his eyelids with careful fingers. His pupils were sluggish but responsive, his emerald eyes flickering faintly beneath dark lashes.

After determining that there did not seem to be any head wounds, she began cataloging his condition and injuries with practiced precision: the contusions, the pale lips, the sluggish rise and fall of his chest. His skin—bronze but dulled with a greyish undertone—felt clammy beneath her fingertips.

Leaning closer, Amriel carefully assessed the man's facial wounds. The cuts to his face were shallow. One streaked across his cheekbone and middle of his right brow, mercifully missing his eye, the other ones on his cheek and chin were even more superficial. Blood was already crusting around the angry red tissue. They were the kinds of wounds that would sting but heal on their own, leaving scars only if left untended.

Relief flickered through her chest. These were manageable—simple work for a basic healing poultice made from lycra leaves, which she always had on hand. The Lycra plant was practically a weed that could grow even in the harshest of conditions. The valley around the capital was full of it. The plants soothing properties would ease the sting and stave off infection.

Her relief, however, was exceptionally short-lived.

Continuing her inspection, her gaze shifted downward, taking in the ruin of his armor. Dark leather, sturdy and well-crafted, was slashed and gouged by brutal blows. She ran her fingertips across a pattern of gouges across his chest.

"Claw marks," she murmured to herself.

Evidently, the man had been fighting off multiple foes. The claw marks could not belong to anything human and, thankfully, the armor had done its part against that advisory, for without it, he would certainly have been gutted.

Unfortunately, it had not been able to stop the two arrows that struck him. Those were very much human. Two rents marred the protective material: one embedded in his left side, the other just above his groin.

Dark blood seeped sluggishly from the wounds, soaking the black leather a sinister red in the firelight. The arrows jutted obscenely just above the level of his armour, where they had been snapped off to leave jagged, broken shafts of wood protruded from the punctures.

Amriel's stomach twisted.

Arrow wounds. She had seen them before. And she knew exactly how treacherous they could be.

Puncture wounds were notoriously difficult to treat; those in the abdomen were even more perilous. If either arrow had struck something vital—liver, intestines, or other—there was little she could do save for manage his pain to ease his passing.

There were mages and witches who could heal such wounds, but they would not do so without payment upfront. And their costs were steep. Very steep. Far beyond what Amriel could afford, and, thus far, not a single coin was to be found on his person.

So unless he woke, and soon, to tell her to take him to a magic healer, she was just going to have to treat him the best she could. Thank the gods her mother had prepared her well for such moments.

The storm howled beyond the walls, rattling the shutters like the claws of some wild beast desperate to get inside. The wind shrieked through every crack and crevice, but within the cottage, a fragile stillness had settled. The weight of life and death lingered heavily in the air, fragile yet unyielding.

A shiver ran through the man's otherwise still form and his lips began to turn a terrible shade of blue.

"I'm going to need to warm you up," she murmured, her voice gentler now despite the urgency gnawing at her nerves. "But first..." She reached for the straps securing his armor, fingers slipping slightly on the slick, bloodied leather. "We have to see how bad of a mess you're hiding under this."

She shoved the fear aside, clinging to the resolve she'd nurtured through years of relentless training.

This was what she did. What she had to do.

No more hesitation.