There was little wind to be found, even at the edge of the stream, where the trees opened and a wide, green tunnel surrounded the gurgling water. She sat upon a rock, bare except for her underclothes, her hot skin greedily soaking up whatever coolness could be had from it. Her back was hunched, her shoulders bent forward, and her head bowed in concentration. In her right hand was her knife, and the tip of the lethally-sharp blade was positioned near her opposite hand.
Splinters were a common hazard for anyone working with wood in any form. This certainly wasn't the first one she'd had, and undoubtedly, it would not be the last.
But it was the worst.
The tiny, dark fragment had gone unnoticed entirely until the thumb on her left hand began to ache a little. Upon examination, the splinter was noticed, but was so deeply embedded beneath her thumbnail that going after it was pointless. After all, most splinters would work their way out, given time and patience.
"But not you, you little bastard," she hissed quietly, bringing the digit closer to her face for inspection. Over the past week, the pain had increased exponentially until even the slightest touch was unbearable. Her thumb had slowly begun to turn an angry shade of reddish-purple, and there was no escaping that it was, in fact, infected. And now it was swollen like a fat, revolting sausage, the skin stretched and shining in the sunlight.
"Killed by a feckin' splinter," she grumbled, then chuckled wryly, wiping the back of her knife-holding hand across her sweaty brow. The summer's heat was oppressive enough on its own today, but she could feel a warmth radiating from within rather than without. A fever was the final warning sign that she needed to act, and soon. The bit of willow bark between her teeth was a meager hope of relief, but it was better than nothing.
Taking a deep breath, she positioned the knife again, then gave a loud sigh and instead, plunged the painful hand into the swift-running water beside her rock. The cold was an unpleasant shock, and she grunted under her breath while goosebumps popped up along her pale arms. "It's as numb as it's gonna get," she whispered to herself, but hesitated a few more seconds, before pulling her hand out again.
Shaking the excess water from her fingers, she set her jaw and situated the tip of the blade once more near her thumb. Her eyes hovered mere inches from the wound, and she brought the knife to rest just beneath her thumbnail, having to pry it up slightly due to the swollen condition of the flesh. Pain flared through her hand and raced up her arm, and she shuddered, gritting her teeth.
She drew a long breath in, and pressed the blade down, turning her face away at the same moment. The agony was immediate and expected, and she let out a strangled growl. The side of her cheek was sprayed with hot pus, while her muscles trembled with the effort not to jerk the knife away all at once. Quivering, she turned back to see a nauseating rivulet of yellow-and-pink trickling along the blade and onto the ground. The dagger was carefully extracted amid much whimpering, and she quickly thrust her hand back into the cool water. Closing her eyes, she panted rapidly, whispering aloud, "It is only pain. Pain cannot kill you. Don't fight it... just let it pass."
Setting the knife down, she dipped her uninjured hand into the water as well, and splashed a little over her flushed face, wiping away the bits of pus left behind. Her teeth ground against the willow bark with an intensity bordering on desperation.
She reached down and gripped her throbbing thumb beneath the water, and squeezed it lightly. A high-pitched mewling pressed its way out from her lips, echoing eerily in the warm, damp air. With the initial torment now passed, the fervor of survival swelled within her, and the pain became an outlet rather than an opponent. The sharp, over-sensitive agony of the infection was draining with every passing breath, leaving behind a more dull ache that was at least marginally tolerable.
When she was satisfied that she had drained the wound as much as she could, she withdrew her hand from the stream and flopped onto her back on the rock, gasping for breath. A few seconds passed before she found the will to open her eyes and lift her trembling hand to her examining gaze. Already, the swelling was greatly relieved, and she could see the offending splinter, poking out through the open cut. Unsteady fingers reached over, pinched it carefully, and drew it free. She held it up to her face and cursed it thoroughly, with every possible combination of profane words she had ever learned. And then she hurled it away, and closed her eyes again.
Bree-town was at least a day's walk away. She had done her fair share of staggering about in the wilderness with fevers, but something told her that her chances for a recovery were better if she stayed put, rested, and avoided stupidity. She'd never run from Death before, and she wouldn't run now. They had faced each other quite a few times in her young years, and always she accepted that when her time came, that was that, and railing against the inevitable was a pointless waste of energy. And if she were to die, she would much prefer that it be beneath the green boughs of the forest than in some hard, odd-smelling sick bed in a strange house, while strange faces hovered over her.
With the last bit of energy that she could muster, she pulled a small, clay jar from her pack and pulled the tiny stopper. Turning it sideways, a long, slow thread of thick, golden liquid oozed out, covering the festering wound. Afterwards, she carefully corked the jar, replaced it in her bag, and then closed her eyes again, waiting for sleep.
