This is my entry for the event hosted by @writeblrcafe! It was fun doing something like this again :)
This is my gift for @kittrrrr.
Word Count: 1610
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"Can you cut it out?" Aren snaps, breaking his concentration. The cobalt glow emanating from his calloused palms shrinks to a pinprick. A soft sigh escapes his lips as tension leaves his body. "I don't know if you can tell, but I'm trying to get this done, and if you distract me, it's gonna go wrong. I don't fancy having to deal with another zombie, thanks very much."
Gracie-Mae crouches down. "Why don't we just leave this guy here? It's not like we're getting paid." She unsheathes a jagged dagger with a gleaming topaz embedded into the hilt.
He glances at the limp body in front of him. By all means, Gracie-Mae was right. Nobody was paying them anything. They had no obligation to offer their services. He could just stand up now, say he did what he could. Maybe they could hit the pub on their way back. There was a drink somewhere with his name on it, probably accompanied by bad decisions and a faceless figure in bed with him. Then he'd find Gracie-Mae later on, figure out what he got up to, then move onto the next village.
And yet...
He couldn't just leave this guy here. He probably had a family or something. Not quite old enough for a wife and kids, but maybe a pet? Or he might still live with his parents and siblings. In which case, Aren definitely couldn't just leave this guy.
Cobalt light floods the entirety of his palms as he lays them flat on the man's chest. Aren breathes in, then out, then in again. With each breath, the man's body begins to glow with that same light. He keeps going. In his gut, he feels the familiar tug of a rope and he grabs onto it, following the rope to wherever it shall lead him.
On the other side was an ugly, black mass of gunk latched onto the guy's lung. It pulsates with each breath Aren takes, convoluted green light spilling out from the gaps and spreading towards him. It creaks and groans like an old squeaky door, but moves at an incredible speed. He stamps his foot down on it, wincing in disgust at the atrocious squelching noise it makes in response.
He approaches the black gunk and, with a swift flick of his wrist, causes it to dissipate in an explosion of blue. Aren is yanked back out and into reality. He heaves, leaping to his feet and peering over the man's face.
"Did you do it?" Gracie-Mae whispers. She, too, stares at the corpse in front of them. "He still looks kinda dead."
"Give it a minute."
And, surely enough, there's a quiet groan and two green eyes stare up at the two of them. They're hazy and unfocused, but then the man blinks a few times and his pupils thin. He sits up. The man studies the two of them silently, his expression remaining blank and unreadable. It's mildly surprising; a man dressed this well shouldn't be so good at hiding like this from criminals.
Maybe he's dipped his foot into the criminal world enough times for a few instincts to be ingrained into him.
"Who are you two?" The man's voice is hoarse, as most newly-resurrected people's voices are at first, but sweet. It washes over Aren, coating him in that sickly sweetness. The mild accent there caused inflections on the vowels.
"Aren," He says, holding out his hand. "And that's my sister, Gracie-Mae." The man slowly lifts his shaking hand and takes Aren's, pulling himself up with it. "What's your name?"
The man looks startled at such a question being asked. His eyes go wide, lips parting in thought, and if that isn't just the sweetest thing he'd ever seen. A moment passes, and then he responds, "I'm Carter."
"Pleasure to meet you, Carter." Aren says.
Gracie-Mae rolls her eyes. Her eyes flash with an electric yellow, the air around her crackling and sparking. Carter swallows nervously. She presses her thumb to his forehead and mutters under her breath. Carter winces, then stands up straighter.
"To give you the rundown, here's what happened to you: a guy - drunk, lazy, unimportant - got mad at you for something. I dunno if you owe him money or had an affair with his wife, but he was pissed. He saw you leaving the tavern-" She points at the building behind them- "and got an idea. He whacked you on the head with a broken beer bottle. It wasn't pretty. He hit you a few more times to get the job done." Gracie-Mae pauses. She meets Aren's eyes. "We saw you, and decided to give you a hand."
Carter fumbles for an apology, but Aren cuts him off. "It wasn't easy, mind you. You had this weird thing on one of your lungs I had to get rid of. Real creepy, that thing. But the point is, you're alive and well." He slings his arm around Carter's shoulder and starts to walk him down the street. He glances over his shoulder at Gracie-Mae, and winks. She sighs but lets him go. He knows she'll still be watching.
To his credit, Carter doesn't look uncomfortable or scared at being taken down the street by a complete stranger. In fact, he seems completely relaxed. He walks without a care in the world, like he hadn't been lying on the ground a mere minute or two ago.
"Why'd you bring me back?" Carter asks. "I'm sure there's tons of people that deserve to be brought back more than I do."
Aren shrugs. "You seemed interesting." He left it at that.
Carter gives him an inquisitive look. "But why?"
He waves his hand dismissively. "Look at it this way: you have another chance at life, thanks to yours truly. All I ask is that you don't tell anyone that me or Gracie-Mae were here. Alright?"
"Alright." Carter looks like he wants to ask, but doesn't.
He didn't want to tell Aren the real reason he brought him back, but it was a glaring issue. Every time his eyes drift in that direction, he brings them back to facing forwards. More and more similarities crop up by the second. He isn't happy to admit it, but Carter has his eyes, and his hair was styled the same way he loved. He wore the same sort of clothes as him, and even his voice was similar to his. If he looked at Carter for too long, Carter would cease to be there; in his place, he would stand, arms open and a warm smile on his face as he welcomes Aren home.
They arrive at the place Aren and Gracie-Mae have been holed up in for the past few days, and he ushers Carter inside.
"Your injuries are mostly healed, but not fully," He explains, guiding Carter to a chair and getting him seated. "You'll need time to let them heal before going out."
Carter nods, then shuts his eyes. Aren, rather foolishly, in his opinion, bends down to quickly check Carter's pulse. It is sputtering, stopping and starting at random, but it seems consistent enough. It'll even out after a few more hours.
He just needs to make sure Carter doesn't get injured in that time.
"Well, you're royally screwing us over," Gracie-Mae comments as she slides in through the window. "The guards know where we are now. No thanks to your little stunt."
Aren rolls his eyes. "Maybe if you'd been quieter when I was getting it done, they wouldn't have found out." He shuffles around the dinghy space they call a flat in search of their first aid kit. He pulls it out and returns to Carter's side. The wounds on his body aren't hurting him, but they still need to be cleaned and tended to. Aren cracks on with it as he always has done.
Gracie-Mae falls silent. She normally does, when she wants to vent but has no words to vent with. Aren quickly finishes off tying some of the bandages around Carter's abdomen, then stands up.
"I'll meet you outside later. We can work this out when I'm done."
She relents, and slinks off to a hidden corner, either to sulk or do... whatever it is she does when she's alone. Aren's never around to find out what her hobbies are. For all he knows, Gracie-Mae just stares at a wall for hours. He has no way to know, and if he's honest with himself, he doesn't want to. It's her time to do with what she wants. He doesn't need to know every little thing she gets up to.
Aren stares down at Carter. He examines his work, then his hands glide across Carter's torso, gently adjusting the man so he can see what he's looking for better. A canvas of smooth skin, marred by the occasional blotches or scars or marks. His fingers stutter to a halt when they encounter something so small he almost misses it.
It's a tattoo, barely the size of his thumbnail, and yet so intricate in detail. It's a tiny ram's head, the horns gushing with thorns and petals. The eyes of the ram are hollow, staring up at Aren as if to ask who he was.
A grin overtakes his face. This is unbelievable. Lady Luck is truly on his side. Aren contemplates calling for Gracie-Mae so she can see it for herself, then looks down at Carter's face. He can't bring himself to do it yet. Later down the line, perhaps.
For now, that information was a valuable asset. He'd find an appropriate time to reveal it later.