SHACKLED: In the Light of a Dying Flame
Part 1 of this original western whump fic can be found [Here]
Hunted, wounded, and certain he won't survive another sunrise, a shackled man risks his life to save a widow from a violent attacker--only to find himself taken in and given the first safety he's known in years.
Warning: This will get very whumpy (in the best possible way) and there will be no cutting away from the hurt or comfort scenes. Adult themes may be touched upon in this story, these moments will be written with care and not gratuitous.
Part 8
Sarah sat on the edge of the bed and watched Wyatt in the daylight. A finch making a sweet per-chick-o-ree call outside.
He looked unsettled—his brow drawn tight and damp with a faint sheen of sweat, his cheeks flushed. Soft moans and whimpers slipped from his lips, sounds too small to wake him to stop but too troubling to ignore. His breathing was wrong—uneven and shallow, as if his body had forgotten the rhythm on its own.
Whatever place he’d gone to in his sleep, it wasn’t one that let him rest.
She placed a hand gently over his, curled tightly against his chest, fingers knotted in the sheets. He stilled at her touch. His fist loosened. His breath smoothing as the nightmare loosened its grip, releasing him.
He was warm. Warmer than yesterday. When she pressed the back of her fingers briefly to his temple, the heat was unmistakable.
But he had been improving, not even a week after all this started, he was sitting up with help and eating eggs, bread, stew. Beneath his dark beard, the hollows of his cheeks were beginning to fill again. Maybe this wasn’t a fever. Maybe it was just her mind imagining the worst.
Wyatt stirred.
His eyes opened, unfocused, pupils sluggish as if focusing on the light took effort. It took a moment for his searching gaze to find her.
“Hey,” she said quietly.
“G’morning.” His voice was rough, the words thick and slow.
“Afternoon,” she corrected.
That seemed to unsettle him. He blinked once, then again, as if sorting through pieces of himself before deciding which ones he could manage.
“How’re you feeling?” she asked.
“Fine.”
The word came too fast, too neat and hollow. It sat between them like a poorly mended seam.
She didn’t push. “Ready for some food?”
He closed his eyes for a moment before giving a faint shake of his head.
“What about broth?” she tried. “Just a little. To keep your strength up.”
He nodded once. Reluctant.
When she returned with the cup, she helped him sit up just enough to drink, one arm braced behind his shoulders. His body leaning heavily into hers, his hands struggling to hold the cup steady on his own.
He took a careful sip. Then another. He refused another after the third, turning his head slightly away.
“That’s good enough for now,” she said immediately, easing him back down. “We’ll change your bandages later.”
She pressed a cool, damp cloth to his forehead. His eyes didn’t leave hers—soft, tired, searching. Maybe he was just worn down from the nightmares. If he hadn’t been sleeping well, that could explain today. That could explain this.
Then she saw it.
The way his color drained. The sudden beads of sweat. His attempts to swallow.
“Sar—” he moaned, eyes widening.
“Hold on,” she said, already moving, pulling him towards her and guiding his head over the edge of the bed towards the waiting chamber pot below.
His sides heaved violently with effort, his body rigid and slick with sweat, fingers white-knuckled around the wooden bed rail. The first wave came before she could center him properly—broth and bile spilling over her apron.
Sarah pushed past her own body’s reaction and pulled him further over the edge, wrapping his arm across her shoulders just in time for the second wave. His hand fisted in the fabric of her dress, shaking from the effort.
The third and fourth waves brought nothing but dry heaves that wracked his already devastated body, folding him inward as if he could disappear into himself.
“I—” he sobbed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” she said rubbing the back of his neck, holding him steady as he sagged against her, trembling from the effort. “Just breathe.”
She pressed a cool, damp cloth on the back of his neck as he spat the taste from his mouth.
When it passed, she eased him back against the pillow and slipped off her soiled apron, folding it in on itself and setting it over the chamber pot.
Through eyes wet with tears Wyatt mouthed silent apologies. His body shivered in small, involuntary tremors.
“Shh,” Sarah soothed, laying the cool cloth against his fevered skin. “There’s no need to apologize.”
She cleaned him as gently as she could—cool water, a cloth wrung nearly dry, careful not to press too hard. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, silent and humiliating in a way that had nothing to do with pain.
She wiped them away with her thumb.
His eyes closed almost immediately, exhaustion claiming him the moment his body finally loosened.
Sarah rolled him carefully, settling him on his side and slightly forward, tucking a folded cloth beneath his mouth in case the nausea returned.
She gathered her soiled apron and chamber pot, letting Wyatt rest while she cleaned herself up. She sighed as she left the room, she could no longer deny it.
Wyatt was getting sick.
Later, when the light had shifted and the birds outside had gone quiet, Sarah returned with Ruth. Between them they carrying bandages, a basin of hot water, salve, and whiskey.
Wyatt’s breathing was steady but shallow, his eyes open but unfocused.
“Wyatt,” Sarah said. “We’re going to clean your wounds and change your bandages.”
He lay very still, unwilling—or unable—to respond.
Sarah folded the wool blanket down past his thighs and removed the cloth from his midsection. His naked body was ghost-pale against the sheets, ribs rising and falling too visibly—a body that had been used hard and given nothing in return.
She soaked the first few bandages before touching them, letting the warm water seep in. When she began to peel the first bandage back, it resisted—just slightly.
She felt him hold his breath.
“Easy,” she murmured, pausing until his sides moved again. Only then did she continue, slow and patient, lifting the cloth a fraction at a time.
Some places came away clean. Others clung.
Each time she paused, waiting for him to breathe, waiting for the tension beneath her fingers to ease. He never flinched. Never spoke.
“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t answer.
“Just let me know if it hurts too much.” She added softly.
She could tell it did. She could see it in the way his shoulders were held too rigid, the way his fingers curled into the sheets.
With the bandages gone, his back down to his thigh told a story of pain, the wounds were redder now, the surrounding skin swollen. She glanced at Ruth, uncertain how much her sister could see.
Ruth’s face said everything, her brows drawn, nose wrinkled slightly, she could smell the faint edge of infection.
Sarah splashed whiskey into the basin of warm water, then another measure, hoping the extra whiskey would help fight off the infection without burning too badly.
She cleaned each lash mark carefully. His hips bucked weakly into the mattress when she cleaned a particularly angry wound that stretching from his lower back, across his buttocks, and down his thigh.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, washing her hands in the whiskey mixture.
Ruth handed her the jar of honey. Sarah dipped her finger into the thick, golden liquid and traced the length of each wound. She felt Wyatt ease beneath her touch. But she could also feel how warm some of the deeper cuts were.
Next came the salve, warmed by the hearth. Sarah layered the fat and crushed plantain leaves over the honey, his skin prickling faintly at the contact.
Ruth passed her the clean bandages, covering each wound. Sarah covered Wyatt’s midsection with a modesty cloth and pulled the blanket back over his shoulders.
“All done,” Sarah said, “you did great.”
A thought slipped in uninvited—Justin, laying silent in this very bed. On his final day he had stopped speaking, stopped crying, stopped fighting. He had fallen asleep and never woken.
Sarah shut it down immediately.
Wyatt wasn’t as broken. He wasn’t fading from the inside out. He was wounded, yes—but he was still here.
Still, as she looked at him lying so unnaturally still, the decision settled deep in her bones. Damn the explanation she would have to give or the danger it might put them in.
Tomorrow she would fetch the doctor.
Medicine would help. It had to.
She smoothed the final fold into place, rested her hand briefly between Wyatt’s shoulders, and listened to his breathing—slow, even, stubbornly alive.
To be continued...
Shackled: Swallowed by Shadows
A/N: We stand at the precipice, this whole time the roller coaster has been climbing to the top of the hill, from here we start our steep decent and really begin the ride. Hands up and enjoy!
@scoundrelwithboba @dash-of-whump @whumpyreader @herbs-and-poultices @burtlederp