Jheri

The bones in her wrists stand out sharply, poking against my hands as I hack at her bonds. The ropes are very tight, digging into her skin, and I shift closer, struggling to slice them. She flinches violently as I move, and I nearly cut her. Her breaths are jagged. She is too weak to pull away, but her panic is as obvious as the heat radiating from her fevered skin. Her eyes are pinned on my hands and the knife. I free her hands and ankles, step back. See her relax as I tuck the blade into my belt.

She pulls her legs against her chest, glazed eyes darting around. Shivering. Disoriented. She shakes her head frequently, as if in confusion, though she does not appear to be aware she is doing it. Her scars continue to draw my eyes. Far too many for one so young, deliberate-looking wounds that speak of terrible cruelty.

I think of the marks I glimpsed as I freed her. Burned brutally into her hand and back. The balor, a powerful general dispatched to destroy such a tiny, helpless village. Her fear. It makes little sense, if she is what I think she is. Why is she here of all places? Why is she so very young? But I know what that sygil represents, know what they use it for.

I don’t want to be right about this.

She is crying now, soft and muffled, eyes full of raw, shattered grief. I don’t know how to help her. Don’t know what I could possibly do that would not make everything so much worse. She notices me watching her, her face twists with blind panic. She presses herself against the ground, coughing- horrible hacking sounds that seem to rip her tiny frame in two. She doesn’t seem able to stop. Before I know what I am doing, I pull her to her feet, hold her skinny, scarred hands and try to calm her.

“Shhhh,” I murmur, desperately trying to reach her, “Shhhhh.”

She barely seems to notice I am here, she is choking now, she has too much smoke in her lungs and the icy air must be making it worse. I realise suddenly how very cold it is, how cold it must be for her. I need to make her warm. I have no cloak, but I unwrap my scarf from my neck with one hand, holding her up with the other. It is rumpled, damp with sweat. Clean enough. I hold the wool to her face, not wanting to smother her, loop it over her skinny shoulders. Gradually her coughing lessens, I can see her getting in breaths.

“Good girl, that’s a good girl. You’re alright, little one.”

She becomes slightly more alert as I secure the scarf, her eyes widen and she pushes me away. So afraid. I don’t want to think about why this instinct is so ingrained, don’t want to think about what happened to fill her with so much fear. She tries to stand on her own and collapses. I catch her, hold her against me. Her skin burns. She trembles, eyes slits, matted hair, breathing in ragged gulps.

I want to hug her tight and wipe the filth from her face and promise that no one will hurt her ever again. I want to chase down those monsters who scarred her skin and her soul and destroy them, make them pay in pain and blood for what they did.

I want to tell her she is safe now.

But I know she will never believe me.