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Lanzallamas
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The name Santiago Rúmil (if it was indeed a name; which was what it very much sounded like, and a Spanish name at that) struck a cord of familiarity deep within el Extranjero. And not a sort of vague recognition, the likes of which one felt when recalling a name previously forgotten; it was deeper than that. As if someone he knew and loved was standing directly behind him, but every time he turned to catch them, they disappeared. Santiago Rúmil was richly familiar as he said it in his head, but as soon as the last syllable finished, the familiarity disappeared again; only to reappear once more upon further repetition.
Had el Extranjero been keeping an eye on the ivory wolf at his side, he would have noticed his suspicion, subtle as it was, eating quietly through the atmosphere. “I believe you are looking for someone else,” he said in Spanish, but the injured creature shook his dark head and replied in the same tongue. “No. You are Santiago Rúmil. I know you can feel the familiarity. But there isn't much time. She needs help,” he said, unknowingly repeating the words of the wolf in Spanish, whose English he did not understand.
The wounded coyote slid his hand from the unconscious girl's shoulder, and his other hand thrust out behind him to catch himself as he fell fully to the ground. El Extranjero moved smoothly to one knee. “Tell us how we can help,” said... Santiago...? speaking for both himself and the subtly concerned (and yet suspicious) wolf nearby. “I brought her to you so she can be healed and cared for.” “How did you know I was here?” replied Santiago, speaking swiftly as he could see the life ebbing from the coyote's eyes. “If she dies, you must wait here for more. There are more like her.” More? What did that mean? There wasn't time for mystery.
The stranger's chest moved awkwardly, his voice barely a croak. Santiago very gently swept the girl's long black hair out of the way to observe the gaping wound in the side of her head. Santiago had participated in healer's practice before, but this wound was bizarre; it had no distinguishable marks, like those by tooth, claw or blade. Yet the wound was deep. “How was she hurt? She'd be helped with more ease if we knew.” But before he had finished saying this, the middle-aged stranger had rolled over so that his faded gaze rested on the side of the girl's head. There, he died. |
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