Mike's Lethal Wound

Time stretched into a heartbeat of pure terror. Fanta's stomach lurched as they plummeted through mist and roaring water. Her purple hair whipped across her face, the spray stinging her eyes. She felt Mike's fingers latched around hers, a lifeline in the midst of chaos. The warriors' shouts faded into the backdrop, overshadowed by the deafening roar of the falls.

Then came impact. The cold water enveloped them, driving the air from Fanta's lungs. She fought the river's violent swirl, chest aching for oxygen. For a moment, she lost hold of Mike's hand, panic spearing her. She kicked desperately, searching for the surface.

Sunlight and mist greeted her as her head broke through. She gulped air, coughing. Currents pulled her along, spinning her in eddies. Where was Mike? She whirled, scanning the turbulent water. Her heart seized—he was nowhere in sight.

Then something brushed her leg. She grabbed at it, finding Mike's arm. He, too, surfaced, gasping, eyes wide with shock. Relief flooded her. She paddled closer, hooking an arm around him to stay together. They let the rush of the lower river carry them away from the waterfall's plunge pool. Above, on the cliff, they heard distant shouts of frustration from the warriors.

The current eventually slowed, letting Fanta guide Mike toward a calmer stretch. Her limbs burned from exertion, but adrenaline fueled each stroke. By the time they reached a small rocky shore, her chest heaved with exhaustion. She dragged Mike onto the bank, rolling him onto his back.

He coughed violently, retching water. Then, as she tried to catch her breath, she noticed crimson staining the rocks. Her gaze dropped to his side—a gash, cut deep by a submerged rock during their fall. Oh no.

Mike let out a shaky laugh, though blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "That was fun, huh?" he rasped in English. "Where have you been all my life?" He grimaced, obviously in pain. "Now I'm here…dying in your arms… how romantic." A wry grin tugged his lips.

Fanta's heart twisted. "Stop joking," she whispered fiercely. She pressed a trembling hand against his side, where the wound oozed alarmingly. Warm blood coated her fingers. "You're bleeding too much."

He coughed again, voice weakening. "Well… it was a hell of a jump, wasn't it?"

Her chest constricted. "Yes, and now you're hurt," she said, tears prickling her eyes. The irony—he saved her from the warriors only to be grievously wounded by nature's fury. She glanced around at the thick forest canopy, the swirling river. No medics, no supplies.

Mike's face was turning pale. "Don't… worry," he mumbled, though even his short sentences betrayed pain. "Better… with you free… than them capturing you."

She shook her head, tears brimming. "Stay with me, Mike," she pleaded, pressing her hand to the wound. Warm blood seeped between her fingers, staining the pebbles under him. The thought of losing him—the only person who'd accepted her—sent terror lancing her heart.

He forced a chuckle that turned into a splutter. "Fanta… I—I'd do it again," he whispered, eyes fluttering. Then he lost consciousness, body going limp in her arms.

Fanta's world blurred, panic seizing her. "Mike! Mike!" She shook him, desperation cracking her voice. "Wake up!" His head lolled to one side, a faint murmur escaping his lips. Blood still trickled from the gash, painting the water around them a faint red.

Her heart pounded. The warriors might still follow the river downstream or find another route. She had no time to flee, no time to hide. She only cared about this man who had risked everything for her. Tears slid down her cheeks, thick and hot, mingling with the water that dripped from her hair. "Don't die… please," she begged, voice choked with sorrow and guilt. "I can't lose you. Not after all this."

She recalled her mother, Anayara, an herbal healer who might have saved him with potions or bandages. But that life was far behind. Fanta had no medical skill aside from minor herbal knowledge. She pressed her palm to his wound, trying to stanch the blood flow. Her tears fell in steady drops, sapphire-born sorrow meeting the red of his life's blood.

Soft sobs tore from her throat, an outpouring of her accumulated grief—rejection by Ogamba, terror of near drowning, relief at finding someone who admired her, now overshadowed by the threat of losing him. "Mama… if you could see me… help me…!" she cried.

Tears splashed onto the wound. She didn't notice the subtle glow as they mixed with his blood, forming a glistening film across the gash. She only saw that his breathing was shallow, each exhale a fragile whisper.

Minutes passed in a blur of heartbreak. Fanta bent over Mike, face streaked with anguish. She didn't notice how the tear-blended blood shimmered on his skin, weaving like tiny threads of light. Her sobs quieted to ragged gasps. She was about to check his pulse again when she felt movement—a stirring beneath her hand.

She glanced up, startled. There, in the dim reflection of the forest's shadow, Mike's eyes fluttered open. He inhaled sharply, then turned to her with a shaky grin. "You… okay?" he asked hoarsely, though the question should have been directed at him.

She blinked, too stunned to answer. Her gaze dropped to his side. Where there had been a deep, bleeding wound, the flesh was sealed, faintly pink but intact, as if the cut had never existed. Sticky blood dried around it, but the gash itself was closed.

"How—?" she whispered, voice trembling. She brushed a cautious hand over the area. No tear in his skin, no unstoppable flow of blood. "You were… dying."