The first sign that something was off was that she seemed taken aback at the sight of him.
Then again, his mind was probably just going for realism. He was hideous uninjured. Beaten and starving? He was lucky she did not shrink away in horror. As it was, her hands lifted to her cheeks and her head shook back and forth until Throe stepped in as if to protect her delicate sensibilities.
Didn't that make him wish for a weapon. This was his dream. If she was going to be sheltered, he would take care of that. Well. . . assuming he could stand up. And she did not run away -
"He is failing," he heard her say.
His eyes fluttered back at the pure, dulcet sound. That voice was as perfect as the rest of her, and he concentrated hard, trying to get his brain to make her speak some more in his dream.
"Aye," Throe said. "This is an emergency. "
"What is his name?"
Xcor spoke up at this point, thinking he should be the one to make his own introduction. Unfortunately, all that came out was a croak.
"Lay him down," the female said. "We need to do this with speed. "
Soft, cool grass rose up to meet his broken body, cushioning him sure as if the palm of the earth was mittened in wool. And when he reopened the steel doors of his eyes, he got to watch her kneel beside him.
"You are so beautiful. . . " was what he said. What came out of his mouth was nothing more than a gargle.
And abruptly, he had difficulty breathing, as if something had burst in his interior, perhaps as a result of all the moving?
Except this was a dream, so why would that matter?
As the female brought up her wrist, he reached out a shaking hand and stopped her before she could score her vein.
Her eyes met his own.
In the periphery, Throe once again closed the distance, as if he were worried that Xcor would do something violent.
Not to her, he thought. Never to this gentle creature of his imagination.
Clearing his throat, he spoke as clearly as he could. "Save your blood," he told her. "Beautiful one, you save what makes you vital. "
He was too far gone for the likes of her. And that was true not merely because he was badly wounded and probably going to die.
Even in his imagination, she was far too good for even proximity to him.
As Layla fell to her knees, she found it difficult to speak. The male stretched out before her was. . . well, injured severally, yes, of course. But he was more than that. In spite of the fact that he was on the ground and clearly defenseless, he was. . .
Powerful was the only word that came to mind.
Tremendously powerful.
She could tell nearly naught of his features for the swelling and the bruising, and the same was true of his coloring, because of all the dried blood. But in physical form, although he appeared to be not as tall as the Brothers, he was every bit as wide, and thick of shoulder, with arms that were brutally muscled.
Mayhap the contours of his body were the seat of her impression of him?
No, the fighter who had called her forth to this meadow was of equal size, as was the male who delivered the wounded here to her feet.
This fallen soldier was simply different from the other two - and in fact, they did defer to him in subtle ways with their movements and their eyes.
Indeed, this was not a male to toy with, but rather, like a bull, capable of crushing anything in its path.
Yet the hand that touched her was light as a breeze and even less confining - she had the distinct impression that not only was he not holding her here, but that he wanted her to go.
She was not about to leave him, however.