The Ethereal woman searched his face and Mingan wondered briefly what she read there. After a long moment, she dropped her gaze to his chest, and the array of symbols he had revealed. She took a deep breath and held out her hand as he'd asked. He took it lightly, guiding her fingertips over a nearly faded combination of symbols. He could feel the faint pull of her magical abilities as her fingertips touched the runes only ever so lightly.

"This is a collection of protection runes," he explained patiently. "Selected and fine-tuned to my needs and abilities over many decades. Some are fading, but they work well enough."

"So that is where your magic lies," she murmured, studying the marks. When he released her hand, he was startled to find her fingers slid lightly across his chest, tracing another set of runes. She'd found the ones that spelled out his glamour before she snatched her hand back.

The flush grew darker in her shimmering, pale cheeks, and she looked away. "It is different in my world," she said, holding her treacherous hand to her chest.

"The rules of magic vary depending on the realm." The anger and resentment he had for her drained. She was not a threat. The intimate gesture, as brief as it had been, brought about in him a distinct sense of calm. He understood with more clarity where her fear had come from. Her touch had calmed him, even through the protections of his runes. She was not only able to influence those around her, but to be what others desired.

Calm was so often what he desired. It was the reason he spent so much time in the woods alone. Her inherent abilities had worked their magic. With only a momentary exchange, he was left with the tranquility and clear-minded calm that he only seemed to gain after long weeks alone, wandering in the deep woods. He wanted more.

If he'd been another sort of man or creature, that touch, her current lack of control, may have had an entirely different result. Had he desired power, was lustful, if the anger he used as a mask had been his true nature... He didn't want to think how her powers might have affected him. Though he knew she had manipulated him, in a way, the Wolf did not rise in him in defense. The other spirit within him did not sense any ill intent where he could not. She was at his mercy, scared, weak, and alone. He could not blame her for an instinctual use of powers while she sought to simply survive.

"Let me see that wound," he said, putting aside his thoughts. There was precious little daylight left, and he needed all he could get if he had to stitch it.

She nodded, seeming as lost in thought as he had been. She had relaxed, no longer a trembling ball of fear and vulnerability. The determined confidence, even if feigned, had returned. She was willing to let him help. She gathered up the edge of her tattered, linen gown, revealing the extent of her wound. Pale undergarments still covered her, but she made a considerable effort to keep from showing more of her body than absolutely necessary. She was modest, he realized, and fought the urge to smile in amusement. He hadn't expected modesty.

Whiskey was the only disinfectant he had. Though he loathed wasting the good quality alcohol, it was the best he could do for her septic wound. He poured the amber liquid over the ragged flesh and she gasped. Quickly, he pinched the edges of the wound together and proceeded to stitch. Her powers leached into him, steadying his hand, calming his hurried work.

She paled and dimmed considerably, but did not pull away from him or protest. She grit her teeth, twisting the cloth of her gown in her hands as he worked. It was impressive, really, her stoicism, as he jabbed the needle through inflamed flesh, time and time again.

The Wolf, the power which he guarded so carefully, pushed at him, sensing the extent of the damage done to her. Sepsis was working at polluting her blood and tissues. He'd done little more than close the gash. He sighed and wiped his hands absently on a well-worn rag.

"Further travel is out of the question."

"I will be well enough to travel by morning." She assured him. "I would push on now if you would let me."

He sighed, glancing at her fever reddened cheeks. She wasn't only injured, she was sick, and would only worsen before her body fought off the infection. "No, you won't," he grumbled. "The wound is septic. You will have trouble recovering from the blood loss alone."

"What do we do, then?" she asked, a hint of hysteria in her voice. "I don't know these lands, what herbs to use. Are you versed in healing? "

"Not exactly." He wiped her wound clean and slid his fingertips gently along the outer edge of the hasty stitches, considering his choices. She tensed, watching him warily.

"We could wait a few days. Hope you heal well enough, and risk being discovered by those who were hunting you. I could also set a few wards, leave you here, go to the ranch on my own..."

Her eyes widened at this, and she grasped his wrist. "I can go on. I might be slow, but..." she assured him. "There is no need to leave me here."

"I can smell the creature's poison on you. He's counting on it slowing you. Even if Hayeta and Lokni drove them off, they'll be back."

"All the more reason not to leave me," she said with forced confidence. He could smell her fear. He could sense it through her grasp on him, through gaps in protections from his faded runes. Being left alone in this foreign land terrified her, and somehow, in some cruel twist of fate, he'd become her lifeline.

He sighed, wondering what insanity had overtaken him. "I do have a resource to draw upon..." Before he could change his mind, Mingan tapped into a power he closely guarded, one that linked to the spirits of the earth. It was there that The Wolfgod resided. It rose up in him, threatening to take him over, as rarely used as it was. Mingan pushed back with his will, focusing on using only the merest hint of the power needed to soothe the infection ravaging her damaged flesh. Bile rose in his throat as he drew the toxins into himself. The backlash of absorbing poison was subtle before it dispersed, thanks to the vast power of The Wolfgod.

No longer dealing with inflamed tissue, he reached into her with his senses, knitting together blood vessels, muscles, and skin. The Wolfgod, could, and would heal it all if Mingan let him. But he held back, soothing only the worst of the damage. She would need the stitches for some time yet, but now she would be well enough to get through the next leg of their journey. The Wolfgod protested the work so clearly left undone, fighting for power, for dominance. Mingan turned away from her, wary of revealing the way he struggled to tamp down the power now surging within him.