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It was a small miracle that Elze’ith stumbled across the man collapsed in the snow.
The howling winds and swirling snow made it night impossible to see; everything was just an expanse of white and cold. Somehow, inexplicably, there was still enough crimson visible against the snow to catch Elze’ith’s eye. He rushed over as quickly as he could, shielding himself with his magic against the worst of the storm, though the freezing wind still sapped the heat from his core.
The man was already half-buried by snow and ice when Elze’ith knelt down beside him. The furs he was wrapped in, haphazard as they were, were likely the only reason he was still even shallowly breathing. And a quick examination revealed the source of the bright blood against the snow; a wound on his temple, another in his shoulder, bleeding his life away sluggishly but unceasingly.
Elze’ith didn’t know who this man was. He didn’t know why he was out here. But he knew he couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t bear to watch this man die.
The cold air stung against his skin as he took off his glove, but he needed direct contact to heal the man’s wounds. Luckily, they weren’t deep, and it didn’t take too much magic to seal them over. The man groaned as he did; he was strong, Elze’ith realized. Even after all he had clearly been through, he wasn’t fading. Not yet.
As gently as he could manage, Elze’ith bundled him into his arms. His camp was nearby, and he needed to get this man warm if he was to survive. And Elze’ith had no intentions on letting him die now.