Kiss of Life

There had never been much time for women in young Rook’s life - he’d been only eighteen years old, at the peak of his days of reckless abandon, when the war had started and he’d been shoved brutally into the midst of seasoned, grim-faced soldiers, many of them still bitter over the first war with Redd. But he had always been focused, forced into sullen isolation by his over-zealous father who had vowed to make a soldier out of his only son if it was the last thing he did. And it is the memories of the lack of warmth from his father that had stirred a primal part of him into action, instilled in him a desperate longing to make his father proud. When it all came down to it though, it had been his grandfather who had taught him the most and he often remembered the brutal, frigid winter evening when his grandfather had driven a stake into the frozen ground and tethered the boy’s prized horse, a large dappled gelding on whose back he spent many summer afternoons, to it. And the two of them spent hours huddled beneath a canvas blanket, their hot breath the only thing available for warmth. It was an eleven-year-old Rook who stared nervously through the scope of the rifle propped up on the snow-bank behind which they hid, waiting impatiently for the ravenous wolf his grandfather was sure would come. And it did, eventually, while the evening hovered between day and night and stars began to glimmer in the cloudless sky. At first, it only slunk cautiously around the perimeter of the clearing where the horse stirred restlessly, acutely aware of the danger that lurked in the shadows and Rook’s heart pounded hard in his throat and his nerves stood on edge. At long last, it had lunged from the murky depths of the darkness and surged across the frozen ground and Rook watched in agony as the distance between the ravenous animal and his beloved horse closed far too quickly and he tried hard to pull the trigger but, in his nervousness, his fingers trembled and slipped and he lost contact with the cool, heavy gunmetal. His grandfather had animatedly shouted instruction at him, his tone growing more urgent as the wolf advanced ever-more quickly on the panicked horse. Alas, it was no use because Rook had been paralyzed by his horror and his grandfather forced the rifle from his hands, leveled it on the wolf’s shoulder and pulled the trigger but it was no use because the wolf had already lunged and caught horse-flesh between its teeth. Rook, terrified and shocked beyond comprehension had cried out in vain while his grandfather sprinted down the hill, firing several more rounds at the wolf, which eventually relinquished its grip and stumbled back into the woods where its cries could be heard for several minutes before it eventually quieted. The wounded horse thrashed wildly, still tethered to the thick stake, its eyes wide with panic and Rook, guilt festering angrily in his gut, watched with tears streaming down his cold-flushed cheeks as his grandfather lodged a bullet in the injured animal’s head to end its suffering.

Perhaps Rook had never recovered from this failure, this vital failure that had cost his beloved horse its life. Perhaps this singular memory had driven him as much as his father’s lack of confidence in his son. Or maybe it was only a ghost in his past that refused to leave him and often returned to remind him that no one is invincible, that no one wins every war. But Rook had been lucky, was lucky enough to make it out of the war with Redd alive and with honor. For the first time in his war-career, he’d been the prey instead of the predator when the White soldiers had transplanted a lethal, generally successful sniper in the only city the Wonderland had left. That one highly-talented sniper had been stationed there for only one reason: to kill Rook.

But he was not thinking about any of this now, with his breath hot in his throat, because he just realized he had not released the girl. He noticed this with a visual shock and he removed his hand from her arm so abruptly that he might have been burned. Her furrowed brow was not lost on him, although he did not feel as if he owed her any explanation and certainly not an apology. Outside of the alley, the sound of gunfire continued and was soon accompanied by shouting from both sides. Rook paused for an instant, closing his eyes and rolling his head back against the cool brick wall at his back, allowing himself this one singular moment to suck in a sharp breath and regain his bearings. The nerves did not get the best of him now as they once had, though adrenaline surged recklessly through his bloodstream and his hands trembled faintly.

He abruptly returned to the present at the sound of shuffling feet which drew nearer by the second and, immediately, he was on his guard - raising his rifle to the mouth of the alley and keeping it trained on the figure hurrying toward them. Naturally, it didn’t take him long to recognize the burden the man bore and even less time to realize the soldier slung over the lean man’s shoulder was dressed in allies’ fatigues. While he didn’t recognize Cheshire at all, the soldier who was bleeding profusely from multiple wounds looked vaguely familiar and a string of swear words left Rook’s mouth before he could stop them; <i>Hatter</i>. He didn’t know why it came as such a shock, because this was not the first wounded soldier he had ever seen, but the unwounded man was clearly a medic and did not hesitate before setting to work on the man’s wounds. He requested the girl’s help and Rook glanced in her direction in time to catch her helpless look. This was all it took to stir him into action and he slung his own rifle across his back before surging to Cheshire’s side, kneeling beside him and never hesitating before reaching out to apply steady pressure to Hatter’s bleeding shoulder.

Rook had no medical training, had never been exposed to a situation where he might have learned any medical technique but he had been wounded enough to know that the only way to stem the blood-flow was pressure. Beyond this, he was clueless and he leveled those sea-green eyes of his on Cheshire’s face, hoping that he might convey an unspoken promise to help.

“You must tell me what you need me to do,” he told him in that helpful tone, earnest in his eagerness to help. The girl was not forgotten though, and he passed a glance over his shoulder to ensure that she was, in fact, all right, seeing as he hadn’t gotten much of an answer beyond the frail nod of her head. When he was sure she didn’t need medical assistance herself, he returned his attention to the wounded soldier and the medic kneeling beside him, awaiting instruction.