Blood

The forest ended at our lawn. It was dark and intimidating but it had never worried me. I suspected it of harbouring delicious secrets, although I was twelve before I had any proof of this. One day a boy staggered out of the trees, bleeding from his palms, face and chest covered in arcane symbols. I could only stare as my father carried him into the guest room, and my older sister silently bathed and bandaged his hands. I was not allowed into the room but it was right beside mine, and I always woke to hear him screaming in fevered nightmares.
Eventually he was well enough to leave and I never saw him again.
He was not the only such visitor we had, however, and after my sister married it became my task to care for these odd people. No word about them was ever said between my father and me, and when he died I found myself alone in the dark house with a thankless task looming over my days.
The bleeding people only appeared when the moon was completely full or empty, sometimes all in a rush or years apart. By my nineteenth birthday I'd treated almost a dozen and most of them with no guidance but my own vague memories, gathered from sneaked glances at my sister - a cold cloth across a hot forehead, bandages changed each day and sterilised before hanging in whatever brisk wind or feeble sunlight could be found. Moaning and crying often filled the house. I washed more bloodstains than I could count from hands and sheets and shirtfronts. And always, when the fever left them, these people would leave without a word, back into the greedy forest. I never saw a person twice.
One winter, a man collapsed at the treeline. I did not notice him at first, until the wind dropped down and his weak cries echoed across the still air of the yard. I grabbed a blanket as I ran out, not caring that it was my favourite and soon to be ruined. The man was blue with cold - it hadn't snowed yet but I was sure that it would - and even when I managed to haul him upright he could barely stand.
"Just a few steps," I muttered. "I know it hurts. You can do it, just a few steps to the door, and inside is warm. You can sit by the fire, it's very cosy in that seat, and I'll bring you soup if you're hungry. Just a few more steps..."
He leaned against me. His hands dripped sluggishly, and he slipped in my grasp, so that we were soon clutching each other. I wished I had time to cover the fireside chair before settling him into it, but he was gasping desperately for breath and I knew he could stand no longer.
As soon as he was settled I ran for the bandages, frightened by the length and depth of his wounds. I had only seen cuts on their hands before, but his continued up his arms and onto his chest.
"I - haven't seen any so bad," I admitted. "I don't want to lie to you - I don't know much about this. All I can do is wrap you up and feed you, keep you clean and warm. It might not be enough."
"We -" his voice caught on itself, cracking in his throat as he broke the rule of silence. I waited impatiently - that one word was all I'd ever heard from one of them, and nearly as much as I ever got from the townsfolk when I ventured out for groceries. I wanted more. I ached for more.
"We should not speak."
I almost laughed. We should not, but he'd broken that rule just by telling me so.
"None of you ever has," I replied. "Not in seven years."
He blushed - I was surprised he had blood enough left to do so. He must have been bleeding for hours.
"I am the first to - break?" He hung his head. "How pathetic. How weak."
"I don't think you're weak at all," I said quickly, before he could decide to stop talking. "You haven't complained once, you were out in the cold all that time... I would be crying nonstop if I were in your place."
He smiled. It stretched the corners of his mouth without betraying any warmth at all.
"That is the very reason you are not - and never will be - in my place."
His words would have hurt if I were not so glad to hear them. I continued bandaging his wounds, trying to be gentle. He fell silent, until I finished with his arms and reached for his chest.
"Wait!" He growled. I waited dutifully as he struggled to focus his gaze.
"The - tattoos," he said. His voice was softer. I worried that he was getting weaker, because I had no idea what else I could do for him. "Do not - don't touch them."
I was curious, but did not ask why. I didn't want to tire him further.
"I'll do my best," I said. "Now sleep a bit. When you're a little stronger you can eat something, and maybe we'll get you into an actual bed. It's a good chair but it's not made for sleeping in."
He frowned and opened his mouth to argue, then sighed and slumped back.
"I'm always close by," I said, "Call out if you need anything."
I stayed by him all night, trying to occupy myself with mending clothes. It was slow work, hard in the dull firelight, but once I sank into its rhythm I felt the hours begin to slide by me. I didn't sleep, but I was well used to anxious nights.

The sun was almost risen when he began to dream, twitching and groaning and twisting from side to side. I wiped his face with a cloth, and whispered the things my sister used to, when the screaming began.
"You're safe here, don't be afraid. You are brave and strong. This place is warded. You're safe."
I wondered if she'd known what the words meant, or if she'd said them as I did now, over and over, a meaningless phrase that became a mantra against the fear of the sleeping man. He continued to writhe - I put my palms against his chest, hoping he would be stilled by my touch, before he could hurt himself.
But where our flesh met - it was as if fireworks were exploding behind my eyes, sparks melting my brain, colours dancing every time I blinked. There was a heat on my hands so great I thought our skin would sear together, and I could smell it burning before I felt it.
His eyes flew open, wide with pain or maybe horror. I thought I saw the same expression on my own face, mirrored on his eyes. The heat continued to build, until it was beyond pain, and I thought I was floating in the shifting colours of his eyes, colours that spun and exploded and tasted like candy when I drank them and drowned in them...
A sharp pain woke me, the man's teeth biting through my lip. The taste of blood in my mouth made me feel ill. He pushed me roughly away from him.
"No blood," he gasped. "No blood on the Marks."
The tattoos on his chest were livid - was this why he'd said not to touch them? I licked my lips quickly, swallowing the blood despite its sickly taste. Whether or not I believed in magic didn't matter, only that clearly something had happened, and if just touching those marks was enough to cause my brain to self-destruct then I could only imagine what might happen if I ignored his warning.
"What - ?" I tried to ask him about what had occurred, but my tongue was numb and clumsy, like I'd drunk hot soup too fast. I shook my head and tried again, forming my words slowly and carefully. "What was that?"
He looked at me through his lashes, as though his head was too heavy to lift.
"I told you not to touch them."
"I know. I'm sorry. It - slipped my mind. I was worried about you."
My palms itched as the heat left them.
"Look," he said. "What you did - was foolish. You're now Marked too, even though you were never tried. We're linked. Unless I can get the Marks off... do you have a good, sharp knife?"
I gaped at him.
"Uh - no. All of my knives are terribly dull." The lie was weak, almost amusingly so, and I scrambled to change the subject. "Besides, you won't be able to do much with those hands for a while. What do you mean, I'm marked? And we're linked how, and why, and what WAS that?"
"I can't explain it without breaking confidences," he said, and the apology almost sounded sincere. He was either truly sorry, or a far better liar than I was. "Not that you'd believe me if I told you any of it, even the things I AM allowed to talk about."
"Try me," I suggested, absently alternating scratching each hand with the other. "Please."