She would like to say it was like taking candy from a baby, but that analogy is far from accurate (no, that had been Canaan, too trusting, too easy to lure into her false trap). This is most definitely not easy. In fact, if pressed, she might say perhaps she had not fully thought this one through. Just how is one small mare supposed to transport a hulking beast like Dovev? Ok, perhaps not so hulking, but even if he is a bag of bones, he is certainly no lightweight. And perhaps she is tall enough, but her slim frame and lithe build were not made with strength in mind. Athletic she might be, but certainly no body builder.
Fortunately, Dovev seems willing enough to help solve the problem for her. Though, considering his current state, it really is only half the battle. She might be able to lead him easily enough (he is rather out of his mind, half delirious, half dead), but she is not entirely certain he possesses the strength to make it ten feet, much less make it where she needs him to go. She is not entirely certain Violence is done with him, so they cannot stay here. While she might relish a confrontation with the woman, this is neither the time nor place.
Besides, she doesn’t actually wish Dovev dead. He might be annoying and arrogant and a womanizer, but she had officially made him her problem. And she takes care of what is hers. (She is also certain there are number of others who will not be too pleased with her actions, but she has her reasons. Even if they may not fully understand them.)
Fortunately, by some miracle, Dovev actually manages to make to his feet. By his monosyllabic answers, she hadn’t been entirely certain he would. Less fortunately, with his unsteady limbs and battered body, he struggles to remain upright and, as a result, ends up all but crashing into her. She resists the urge to recoil from his rather grisly form, instead bracing herself to take his weight. He is slick with blood, both fresh and old clotting and matting in his dark hair, coloring the white of his bone bold red. His weight presses against, staining her own mottled skin with rust and vibrant crimson.
It would would wash, she reminds herself. He, however, needs rescuing now. The thought nearly makes her laugh aloud. Never had she thought she might place herself in the position of playing knight in shining armor to his damsel in distress. Just goes to show how truly fickle a mistress life can be.
A faint shiver traces along her spine as he repeats the moniker (almost an admission, as though he cannot quite control his words or thoughts in his battered state). She should admonish him, tell him not to call her anything but her given name, but she doesn’t. Even if she would only admit it to herself, she rather likes the way he addresses her.
She can feel his armor biting into her flesh, the press of bone against soft skin, but she does not withdraw. Instead she pushes closer, using her weight to bolster him. Bruises might form, but she would heal. For the moment, she only wishes to ensure that he would as well. “Good,” she finally continues, her voice still slightly sharp. A drill sergeant giving commands. “Now walk. We can’t stay here.”
And she would have him walking, even if she had to push him step by step.
