Dark Matter: SCIENCE FICTION ROMANCE

by Jessica Loft

  “C’mon, man,” he said aloud, “pull yeself together. Tis but a scratch.” He felt something wet dribble down his chin, and he roughly reached up to wipe it away. When his fingers came back red, he knew he needed help, and fast. There were still hours left before the sun sank down, and he could only pray that he could find a village before then. If not, he was certain would freeze in the night.

  CHAPTER 4

  Lizbeth nestled further into her cloak, trying to ward off the chill of the wind. The trees protected her a little, but the cold still sank into her bones like an unwanted guest sank into your private bed. For the last hour she saw no sheep, but had shot two rabbits and a rather chubby red squirrel. If she could get one more, she would be satisfied with her haul and would head home.

  Out of boredom, Lizbeth’s eyes travelled through the trees to the large dome-like shape nestled between the trunks. It was an old home, left there after its owner past on to the afterworld. She was an old spinster woman that, though friendly, preferred solitude. Lizbeth remembered her mother taking her there a few times as a child. She had told her that the old woman was going to help her have a little brother for her. But no help gave Merida what she wanted, and after a dozen or so visits, they stopped visiting the old woman. She was standing there wondering if anyone had gone in it after she passed when she heard the rustling of leaves to her left.

  Quickly, she sprang into hunting pose with her bow raised towards the sound. At first she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. The long black fur made her think of a bear, but it was too skinny. It wheezed and huffed, like it was in pain, and stumbled hard into the trees. Suddenly it dawned on her that it wasn’t a bear at all, but a human being. Lowering her bow, she watched the man stumble out of the group of trees and into a small patch of bare ground about thirty feet in front of her.

  He had blood dripping from his ragged and dirty shirt, and some smeared over his chin as well. His long black braid was pulled loose and frayed over his shoulders. Even from where she sat she could see that he was a lean, muscular man. His shirt hung nearly off of his large shoulders, revealing a well-shaped chest and large arms. He was as pale as freshly fallen snow though, and with the loss of blood and lack of proper clothing, Lizbeth figured he was near frozen.

  Despite his disheveled appearance, Lizbeth found him rather handsome. He had a strong jaw. Though she couldn’t see the color of his eyes, she could see their brightness from where she was hidden. Raising her bow, she stepped out, and made herself known.

  “Who are ye?” She asked loudly, her arrow aimed right for the man’s heart.

  Beaste’s head shot up and looked directly at the beauty holding a well aimed arrow at his heart. Her fiery red hair had come loose from its tether, and was blowing wildly around her short but curvy figure. The dress she wore did her no justice; a simple earth brown thing with a faded white corset around the middle was all it was, wrapped in a hunter green cloak. Still, her eyes, her glittering emerald eyes were what drew him in the most. If this was the person that would take his life, then maybe he wouldn’t mind dying so much.

  “I’ll only ask ye once more, who are ye?” Lizbeth demanded again.

  “Beaste,” he replied quickly. He held up his hands to show that he had no intention of reaching for his daggers.

  “What ye business in this forest, Beaste? And why ye gutted?” Stop looking at him like that, she chastised herself. He may be dangerous. She tried her best to harden her gaze, but felt as if it were not working at all. That irritated her. She watched as even more color faded from his face, and his hands fell slowly to his sides. Taking a step closer, she saw his eyes roll up and his body start to slump to the side. By loss of blood, fatigue, or both, Beaste’s body had finally given up. He fell with a thunk to the ground, and Lizbeth forgot all about her bow and arrow.

  Flinging them down, she raced towards the unconscious man. On the ground she pulled him into her lap and placed her hand over his chest, praying for a heartbeat. His skin was as cold as ice, and his heartbeat was weak. But he was alive.

  ~

  “Lord, why did ye make men so damned heavy?” Lizbeth cursed, pulling Beaste the final steps into the abandoned dome of the late spinster. She shut the door behind them and walked to the fireplace. Half burned wood and an empty field mouse nest rested in the hearth, a perfect way to start a fire. With the flint rocks she set the nest ablaze, and within two minutes she had the flames licking at the wood. After throwing a few more twigs on, she set about clearing off the old wooden table sitting in the center of the dwelling.

  Lizbeth carefully picked up old pots and crocks of half empty liquids that looked odd and smelled weird and put them gently on the barren food shelves. She wasn’t sure what magic they performed, but she wasn’t going to let anything loose by accident. Getting Beaste on the table was even harder than dragging him fifty feet through the forest. She was sure that by the time she got him up there she’d added a few more bumps and bruises to the poor man’s body.

  His shirt ripped away easily, and for a minute Lizbeth was completely distracted by the young man’s naked torso. She had only seen her father’s chest in the past, and it did not look at all like Beaste’s. Her father’s was soft, and very hairy. He had a big belly, and no muscle. But Beaste was different. His well- muscled torso was hard and smooth, without a single trace of hair save for the small trail that started at his navel and disappeared into the waistline of his kilt.

  Her gaze was quickly brought back to attention when the smell of fresh blood rose into her nostrils. Averting her eyes from his chest, she looked down at the wound on his side. It was a gaping thing, nearly three inches long and nearly a quarter of an inch wide with apparent signs of infection. She’d need hot water, whiskey, feverfew, and a needle and thread. Her fingers quickly undid the knot to her cape, and after throwing it over Beaste’s body for added warmth, she set about collecting the materials she needed to save his life. God willing, she wouldn’t have to wonder back home for any of the supplies.

  Though the dwelling was dirty and unlived in, it wasn’t completely unorganized. Behind a hanging blanket she found a pantry full of bottles of whiskey and several boughs of dried herbs and spices. In the kitchen she found an old wooden box full of needles and wool thread. Scanning the room again, she noticed a large, colorful pot full of rain water, in the far corner.

  “Alright,” Lizbeth whispered, taking a swig of the whiskey. “Don’t ye die on me now.” She poured an ample amount of the alcohol onto Beaste’s wound and he barely moaned in protest. After taking another swig to steady herself, she set about cleaning and stitching. Thanks to the fire and her cape, he had warmed a little, and his breathing had at least become deeper. After what seemed like hours, Lizbeth finally put in the last stitch and cleansed the wound one more time before wrapping his waist in a bandage of clean, white linen.

  “Ye did great, luv,” she whispered, pulling the cloak back up to Beaste’s chin. Glancing outside, she saw the sun had set nearly an hour ago, and gasped. Her mother would be worried about her, and though she wanted to stay and watch over the mystery man, she knew she had leave. Quickly she stacked more logs on the fire, hoping that it would last until morning.

  “I’ll be back in te mornin’,” Lizbeth promised. “Just stay here and don’t move.” The unconscious Beaste stayed perfectly still, and Lizbeth nodded her head. “That’s right. Just like that.”

  CHAPTER 5

  For a sick woman, Merida had a surprising amount of strength in her as she raised the broom the whack Lizbeth across the arse as she walked into their home.

  “Aye, Mum!” Lizbeth exclaimed, jumping out of the way of the mad woman. “What te bloody hell are ye doin?”

  Merida leaned on the broom handle, already out of breath. She had a look of fury in her eyes that Lizbeth hadn’t seen since she was a wee lass, and she knew then and there that she could be three or twenty-three. When she was in trouble with her mother, she was in trouble with her mother.


  “Do ye have any idea how scared I’ve been?” Merida exclaimed, snatching the rabbit and squirrel away from her daughter so she could skin and clean them to add to the soup. “I was a step away from sendin’ te entire clan to look for ye!”

  “I’m sorry, mum,” Lizbeth apologized. “It’s just that there was a”-

  “A what?” Merida asked, impatient.

  “A bear,” Lizbeth lied at the last second. “There was a bear in te wood. It had me cornered in a tree. I had te wait till it gave up on me.”

  Merida’s brilliant green eyes, the same as her daughter’s, narrowed into suspicious slits. “Ye lyin’ ta me, lass?” She asked.

  Lizbeth shook her head, hoping her mother couldn’t hear how wildly her heart was racing in her chest. She didn’t like to lie to her parents. She loved and respected them. Yes something told her that she shouldn’t quite mention the man in the woods just yet.

  Merida sighed, and walked over to her daughter. “Ye all I’ve got left, lassie. Ye know that, don’t ye?”

  Lizbeth nodded her head.

  “I don’t mean ta be harsh with ye, but with the wars goin’ on, I worry that one day ye’ll be gone and won’t come back.”

  Lizbeth gave her mother a soft squeeze of a hug and turned to finish cleaning up the meat. “I know, mum. I’m sorry I scared ye.” The conversation dropped and Lizbeth finished the stew by adding the meat into the simmering pot. She kept her hands busy by cleaning up the small kitchen area and continuously stirring the pot of delicious smelling stew. They would eat hearty tonight. Yet despite all of the excitement for her grumbling stomach, her mind stayed in one singular spot. The mysterious man lying on the witch’s table in the woods. Where did he come from? What clan did he belong to? Did…did he have a wife? That question rang in her head louder than any of the others.

  What does it matter? She asked herself as she ladled the soup into bowls. He may be dead in the morning. Her heart constricted at the thought. Please, she prayed. Don’t let him be dead in te mornin’.

  ~

  “Where is he?” Alan O’ Cleary sneered. His weak body trembled from the stress, but he refused to sit down. He had just been given word that his oldest son, his last surviving son, had gone missing from the last battle.

  Angus shrugged his mighty shoulders, his own head bashed open from the battle. The Scots they’d fought along with the English had been small but fierce, and had won. If it hadn’t been for Beaste pushing him out of the way, Angus himself would have lost his head to the great swinging axe that belonged to the rebellion’s lead warrior.

  “We didna’ find his body after the battle,” Angus explained. “He may be alive, sire. We jus’ don’t know where he be.”

  “Then find him, ye great horse’s arse,” Alan hollared. He didn’t like his son. Hell most days he even hated the snide little arse. But he was his son, and it was his duty to give him a proper burial if he was indeed lost in battle. Alan barked for the troupe to leave him be, and only after his door was slammed shut with a finality did he all but crumble into the large over stuffed chair by his fire place.

  He didn’t have long. That much he knew. Just the day before the old doctor came by to check his lungs and there was nothing good to say. Stones, he’d said. Stones had somehow formed in his lungs and were making it hard for him to breathe. They seemed to grow a little more every day making it harder for him to do the simplest of things.

  “A year,” the doctor had said. Though his tone told Alan that it was a lie. He would be gone a lot sooner than that, of this he was certain. He’d done a lot of bad things in his life. His heart was black and he embraced that reality shamelessly. He would do it all again if given the chance because it got him a large castle, servants, and enough gold to make him feel important.

  The death of his other sons had been hard blows, but he’d never truly felt enough to mourn for them. They were like him and if he felt anything, it was the threat of being in competition with them. Beaste was different though. He’d always had been. He was the best fighter out of his brood, yet had the biggest heart. His mother had been a scullery maid, and had died in childbirth. Alan didn’t remember much of her except that she had not once cringed when he touched her, but had instead opened her arms to him. She’d been a fine lass, one of the few he ever admitted to treating poorly.

  Beaste deserved a proper burial. If it was the last thing Alan was going to do, he was going to find his son. Even if it meant going against the King’s orders and burning through the entire Scottish countryside.

  CHAPTER 6

  The first thing Beaste saw when he opened his eyes was golden fire. It looked so warm and soft, and floated above him like clouds. Reaching up, he let his fingers lace through the silky strands and he rubbed them between the pads of his fingertips.

  “So soft,” he rasped.

  A hand, warm, small, and pale wrapped around his larger one. “Let go now,” a soft voice commanded. “I’ve got te finish cleanin’ ye side.” Beaste did as he was told, if ever begrudgingly, and released the silky fire. He felt a wet and painful sensation at his side and as he gasped in pain his vision seemed to sharpen at once. It was not a cloud of fire at all, but red hair. The same red hair that belonged to the young lass he saw in the forest before…before…

  “Who are ye?” He asked, looking around. The dwelling looked old, but clean. He could hear the crackling of a fire and felt its warmth; a wonderful reprieve from the long cold walk he had just endured. “Where am I? What did ye do ta me?”

  Only when he felt her hands push down on his shoulders did he realize he had risen half way up from the table.

  “Calm yeself,” the lass soothed, pushing until his head was once again on the pillow.

  “Ye passed out when we met in the woods and I brought ye in here to clean ye wound and stitch ye up.”

  Beaste remembered the battle and gash to his side. Looking down, he saw that it was wrapped in a clean, white linen bandage. She hadn’t hurt him. A man had given him that wound. He relaxed a little into the table, and looked back up to the lass’s face. She was truly beautiful. Her peaches and cream complexion was dusted with just a sprinkle of freckles along the bridge of her nose, bringing out the brightness of her green eyes. She had a soft, pouty mouth and a delicate chin. Whoever she’s married to should count himself as a lucky bloke, he thought to himself.

  “Lizbeth,” he said, recalling the introduction. She smiled down at him and nodded her head.

  “That’s right,” she encouraged him. “Do ye remember yer name?”

  “Aye,” he replied, and told it to her. “So, am I goin’ te live?”

  “It seems that way,” she said with a teasing tone. “Though it was touch and go for a few days.”

  “Days?” Beaste asked. “How long was I out?”

  “Nearly a week,” she replied. “Ye gash were infected, and ye developed a nasty fever. But ye got through it now, and ye wound is healing quite nicely. Thanks to me stitchin’ ye’ll barely have a scar.”

  Beaste thought back to the battle, to the moment where the man’s blade sunk into his side. He had been trying to get to Angus, to push him out of the way of the axe. He hoped that he’d been successful.

  Those warm fingertips wrapped around his hand again; causing a tingling sensation as he came back to the present. Lizbeth was looking down at him with eyes full of concern. Lord, was she ever beautiful.

  “Are ye here, darlin’?” She asked softly.

  Beaste smiled softly, and nodded his head. “Oh aye,” he told her. For a moment a comfortable silence stretched between them as they held hands and gazed into each other’s eyes. Then, as if it had a mind of its own, his stomach let out a fierce growl. They both erupted into laughter and Lizbeth let go of his hand so she could turn towards the fireplace.

  “I thought ye might be hungry,” she called. “I’ve been feedin’ ye a bit o’ broth here and there, but now that you’re awake I think ye’ll need a wee bit more than that.”

>   “Please,” Beaste implored. He felt as if he’d been starving for weeks, and the smells of the food were hitting his nose full blast. Hints of herbs, onions, broth, and rabbit all swarmed together alongside a loaf of freshly baked bread. He pushed himself into a sitting position and painfully got himself off of the table and into one of the two chairs beside it. Lizbeth sat the bowl of stew and bread in front of him.

  Sounds of pleasure came from his throat as he swallowed the food straight from the bowl. In all his life he was sure that he’d never had more delicious food than this stew and chunk of bread. As an added bonus, Lizbeth poured him a knock of whiskey to wash it all down.