Chapter 3 - Solace

It was an odd feeling touching human skin after such a long time without. I was merely tending to his wounds, but his warmth and softness were of great comfort. The feeling renewed my desire to touch another, to hold someone in my arms once more. That yearning did not exist until I was alone in the middle of the forest. It was a feeling I thought I had forgotten, but with my fingertips licking his pale white skin I was reminded it was merely a suppression of my true feelings.

I oddly never had such an inclination while living amongst others. I suppose loneliness and solitude will do that to a person.

His wounds were all mended to the best of my abilities. The broken arm re-splinted to be more sturdy than the rushed patch-job I had done in the forest. The branch in his leg was removed and stitched shut with the little honey I had poured in to prevent infection. And lastly, his jaw was stitched against a wooden stick to keep it in place while it healed.

Quite honestly, it felt rather heroic to be taking a man from the brink of death and nursing him in such a way. I took great pride in the work I did regardless of not being educated in medicine.

But after all of the most crucial work was done, then came the waiting. And as I waited for him to wake, I watched him, listened to him, all while trying to keep myself from drawing too close.

It was as if I had grown affection for him without those blond eyelashes ever opening to look at me. Without those perfect pink lips ever speaking words. I suppose we are quite easily drawn to those with such exceptional beauty. A little more willing to forgive their faults and misdeeds, not that I knew of his at that time.

For the next three days I continued on with my usual chores: cooking, cleaning, refueling the fire, and laundry. Now, with the added responsibilities of changing his bandages and checking his wounds. I had hoped he would wake soon, worrying of a way to feed or hydrate him should he be unconscious for too long.

On the fourth day after my finding him, I was sitting on my chair, weaving a basket from split willow branches. It was both a hobby of mine and a way of earning coin by selling them to merchants in the closest town. Thinking of the coming spring, I began to sing a folk song I grew up with called Spring o’ Flowers.

Larks call an end to winter’s chill
With rain that brings life unto these hills
Snow melting to shed a blanket of white
A warming of weather to close our plight
Color grows from beneath the sun
The spring o’ flowers has come

Buds of honeysuckle rise from earth
Yellow petaled primose give birth
Orchids bloom purple for the bees
The smell of spring follows the breeze
Hear the sound of festival’s drum
The spring o’ flowers has co—

Meaning only to glance at him, I soon noticed his bright amber eyes staring toward me. Startled, I jerked in my seat, dropping the half-finished basket from my hands.

“I apologize, I did not realize you were awake,” I said to him. It were the first words I had uttered to a person in many months and the shake in my voice was apparent.

Without word, he gently raised a hand over his chest and began tapping his fingers against it. Does he want me to continue? I thought.

Mountain clover makes its climb
Bells of foxglove rings in time
In heath cloudberry bubbles red
Posy blossoms makes a sweetly bed
Crickets chirp and bees’ wings hum
The spring o’ flowers has come

Tried as I may, my voice wouldn’t let me continue — the nerves had overcome me. “I’m not much of a singer,” I told him. Unable to speak from his broken jaw, he simply tapped his chest again, released air from his lungs and gently closed his eyes.

Opening my mouth, I tried to carry on, but the anxiety took over and my voice and hands began to quiver. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m far too nervous to continue.” He nodded, reassuring me that I need not force myself, I believed.

“My name is Hefna,” I told him, “I watched you fall from—…” I had choked on my words. “From the sky,” I blurted, “you were rather badly injured so I brought you back here to my cottage.” Fear welled up inside, preventing me from mentioning the amputated wings protruding from his back. It was not a subject I knew how to broach.

What followed was several minutes of silence. He, unable to speak from a broken jaw, and I unable from a broken tongue maybe. With closed eyes, my breathing slowed and I began to regather my composure. Only the sounds of the cottage and weather and flaring hearth gave conversation.

As my heart began to quiet and my mind began to ease, I finally was in a state ready to speak. “Would you like to eat?” I asked. Again, he nodded to me. After so long without food I could only imagine how starved he was.

I rose from my chair, stepping toward the hearth and hanging iron cauldron. From the steaming pot I ladled some beef and potato stew into a wooden bowl. Vapor floated from it as I took a small wooden spoon from one of the hooks and carried it to the bedside.

“Do you need help eating?” I asked. Briefly, he hesitated before giving another nod. I brought my chair closer so I could sit at his side while he lifted his body into a more upright position, wincing in pain.

With the spoon I mashed the food into more of a thick soup from what was a chunky stew. Those amber eyes watched as I scooped a spoonful from the bowl. With soft breath, I blew to cool it before unsteadily bringing it toward his lips. His eyes seemed to be watching me instead of the spoon, but I tried not to notice.

Feeding him took about a half hour with him unable to chew and struggling to swallow. He seemed to want to thank me, but being unable to speak, he merely nodded.

After another week of my feeding him, changing bandages, and helping him move in the bed, it was becoming clear just how much quicker an angel’s body could heal compared to a humans. The wound in his leg had not shut, but it was closing at the same rate a moderate scratch from a branch would on my body.

While changing his bandages each day, he always watched me intently, never looking away. It made me nervous, I believed because I wasn’t used to being around people. Interacting with him in general made me quite jittery. Over the course of that week, it lessened, but I couldn’t fully force out the shaking of my hands and the quivering in my voice.

Sitting in silence, however, was still rather peaceful. It reminded me in a way of my last year with my late husband, but still dissimilar in a way. All moments spent with Olaus were filled with directions: write this, speak with that person, meet with another, and so on. Always in action without rest or idleness.

This was different — quieter, more alleviating, more relaxing. I believed it to be love.