The Moon Dwellers

Thankfully, it is a short trip, because Tristan and his friend are moving painfully slow and getting slower by the minute. We reach a nondescript building with a black door. Tawni stops and knocks firmly three times. A second later the door opens.

“Adele!” Elsey wails, seeing my disheveled appearance and bruised skull. It probably doesn’t help that I’m covered in blood from the cuts on Tristan’s head, which is slumped on my shoulder. I am a mess.

“I’m fine, El, but these guys need medical attention.”

“I found supplies,” Elsey says, holding the door and letting us past. When we are all in, she says, “There’s a basement. We should be safe from the bombing there. Follow me.”

We follow my stalwart sister down a hall to a landing, where crumbling steps lead downwards. She lights a thick candle, which is good, because otherwise we will surely break our necks on the crooked, uneven staircase.

The room at the bottom is like a tomb, surrounded by heavy stone block walls. Another candle sits in the corner, shedding soft yellow light on the room.

I’m not sure how she did it all so fast, but Elsey has managed to prepare for our arrival. She has almost everything we need: towels, a bowl of water, some kind of paint-on antiseptic in a black jar, long, thick bandages, crispy wafers for eating, more jugs of water. She’s even managed to find a couple of pillows and two thin mattresses to make things more comfortable for the wounded.

I help Tristan lie on his back and Tawni does the same for his friend. They both groan as they settle in. I know nothing about first aid, but Tawni seems to have it covered.

Inspecting their wounds, she says, “You’re going to be just fine.”

She begins working with what Elsey has provided, wetting a couple of towels and handing one to me. I try to mimic her gentle cleaning motions. Tristan’s friend almost seems soothed by the wet towel, but when I touch Tristan he stiffens. My arm stiffens, too, although I’m not sure why.

I go about cleaning his face first. He has a deep cut above his right eye, which has bled all down his face. Although I am cleaning all around his eyes, he keeps them open, watching me. His gaze is electric, powerful, and although I try to focus on what I am doing, my eyes keep flitting back to his royal blue eyes. Each time they do, I feel more and more drawn to him. It is the weirdest thing: although neither of us says a word, it feels like we are getting to know each other, getting comfortable together.

Touching him, even through the wet cloth, I feel warm and tingly. Sort of like I felt in the dream I had about him, when we touched.

The swelling in his face is getting worse, his cheeks puffy, his eyes half-closed. Nothing I can do about that. Time will have to heal his wounds.

I finish with his face and move on to his leg. I’m not sure how to go about it. He is wearing filthy black pants that look like they’ve been through a war. There is a long slice in the fabric from his upper thigh to his knee. Between the shredded flaps of cloth I can see a wicked red gash. If I clean the wound through the hole in his pants, it will be too hard to bandage it. There is really no choice. My face warms as I feel Tristan watching me examine him. I can sense that he’s reading my mind, coming to the same conclusion as me.

I don’t say anything, continuing to “get to know him” without words. I tug at his pants, but they won’t budge because he’s lying on them. Kindly, he lifts his hips, grimacing slightly, and I am able to pull them off. Thankfully, his dark tunic is reasonably long, covering his undergarments. His legs are long and strong—sinewy muscles run down them. I’m no expert, but I’d say he has really good legs.

Ignoring the flush I feel in my cheeks and, hoping Tristan can’t see it in the dim lighting, I focus on cleaning out the gash. Fresh red blood wells from his skin as I wipe away the dark blood that has congealed on the surface, but I manage to stop the bleeding by applying pressure for a few minutes.

“I’ll do your back after we bandage everything on the front,” I say.

He dips his head in a slight nod, still staring at me. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Tawni is already finished with Tristan’s friend, whose face is as bad as Tristan’s, but who doesn’t have the added leg and back wounds. She shows me how to apply the antiseptic and helps me bandage his leg. I might’ve felt somewhat jealous when she touches him, but her movements are so professional that it doesn’t bother me at all.

Time for more embarrassment.

“Sit up,” Tawni says, putting an arm behind Tristan’s back. I follow suit, helping to push him up from the other side. “Arms over your head.”

Obediently, Tristan raises both arms. “Want to do the honors?” Tawni asks with a smirk.

Fresh blood rushes beneath the skin on my face. Of course, Tristan is still watching me. I think he might be amused by my discomfort, but he doesn’t appear to be, or is hiding it well. His gaze is soft but intense, serious yet relaxed, somber and excited at the same time. A whole bunch of contradictions.

I bite my tongue and pull his shirt off.

I do everything in my power to maintain an indifferent expression when I see his body. Inside I am thinking wowowowow! A little bit silly, I know, but that’s what I’m thinking. His chest and shoulders are sculpted from years of training, his stomach flat and hard—his back looks as if it’s been chiseled from stone. A vicious slash runs diagonally across it, from his right shoulder to his left hip. It is deeper than the cut on his leg, but not bleeding as much.

He flips over onto his stomach with a grunt, and we get to work cleaning the wound. After applying a generous coating of antiseptic, we bandage it, wrapping it around his entire chest to provide support as it heals.

Finished, Tawni says, “You’ll need to change these every couple of days.”

Finally, Tristan’s friend speaks. “Oh, I don’t think he’ll mind that at all,” he says with a wink. Or at least I think it’s a wink—it’s hard to tell on his battered face.

“Roc!” Tristan hisses. Beneath the purple and black of his deeply bruised face, I think I detect a hint of pink added to the palette of colors. I wonder what the son of the President has to be embarrassed about. Not much, I expect.

“Roc—is that your name?” Tawni asks.

“It’s what my mother called me,” Tristan’s friend replies. “I’m Tristan’s best friend, I mean, servant, I mean, only friend.” Roc half-laughs and then cringes from the pain.

“Thank you for your input, Roc.”

“My pleasure, your majesty.”

I find their banter enjoyable, especially after the events of the day being so dark and heavy. It is a welcome break from it all. But it can’t last.

“Where’s Cole?” Elsey says suddenly.

Everything flashes back into my mind. Rivet’s snarl; the violent way in which he broke Cole’s neck; the sickening crunch of bones; leaving our friend’s body out there, not giving him the respectful burial he deserves. Tears well up again. I am really getting tired of all the crying.

My reaction is nothing compared to Tawni’s, though. She bursts into tears, throws herself on the floor, weeps into her hands, her body shuddering and shaking. I want to cry, too, to let it all out—or whatever is left of it—one more time. But I know I have to be strong for my friend, like she was for me earlier. It is her turn to grieve.

I crawl over to her side, sit by her, rub her back tenderly, stroke my hand through her hair. “Shhh. It’ll be okay, Tawni. He’s in a better place now—with his family again.” I don’t know why I say it—I’m not even sure I believe it—but I guess I want to believe it. It is what Cole deserves: relief from all his subearthly pain.

I glance at Elsey, whose face is stricken, her mouth contorted and her eyes sharp, and say, “El, I’m sorry, but he didn’t make it.”