Work Text:
The man approaching him looks like an avenging angel. There's a fierceness in his eyes that sets him apart from the mercenaries Sigismund's slighted nobles like to sic on him, their petty hatred and lust for violence. It's obvious he belongs here, in these streets, not among their numbers. He's not a thief seizing an opportunity, nor a scared boy playing hero; neither does he carry himself like a trained guard. Perhaps John's first thought was right, in its silly candor: an avenging angel, if he could for once suppress his skepticism that such things truly manifest in the world.
The man's sword is trained on him, but he hasn't struck yet. If he wanted John dead, he would long be, by now.
A faint ringing from the attack still echoes through John’s ears. He'd better find his tongue quickly – before the man's grace runs out, before the sword pointed at his heart is put to good use, or worse: he's left here for this man's God to decide the rest.
He considers those odds. A liability if I survive. A corpse rotting beside someone's house, if I don't. He takes in the man again. His jaw is tense, as if he were sucking the slightest bit of cheek through his teeth. The proud strain of his chest unwittingly leaves some of his neck exposed. The towering stance speaks not to the juvenile posturing of someone trying to seem bigger, but rather to a righteousness inscribed in the body.
Well, then. If leaving John here is not an option, there's always the alternative: simply run him through.
John steals a last instant to plan his words wisely. Keep our eyes locked. Let him know you're expected. Definitely don't say something asinine like "I mean you no harm", lest you crave derision on top of death. Name the rabbi.
A hot gush of fresh blood spills from the wound on his belly. His eyes drop; the sigh he exhales carries with it an odd sense of relief. "Help me, please." The rough murmur has none of the flow nor the elegance he’d hoped.
Still. There's villages out there, not so far from Kuttenberg, where any man or woman who'd spot a stranger bleeding out on the street would rush to his aid.
The man's feet don't move. He nods at the dagger that lies in John's hand, dripping and forgotten. John complies, making a show of throwing it away. He has so little leverage in this position that the thing only lands a couple fingers' width from his hand, accompanied by a miserable little thud. The man must judge it enough, however; he draws nearer, past John's outstretched leg, and swipes it away with a foot. He still pats around John's forearms and boots. It's not stupid – John's hurt, yes; he's not so hurt he couldn't time a good strike. Maybe the man knows his neck is exposed from below, after all.
So he searches the obvious spots – but he also pokes around the frayed gash low on John's pourpoint where a scarlet halo has formed, assessing the damage with careful fingers before sheathing his sword and lifting him.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
When John meets him again the next day, the man's demeanor is slightly less guarded but no less darkened by his presence. John quickly learns that he is named Samuel, he's the rabbi's own grandson, and he's going to be looking after John for as long as he hides here. He also learns that Sam has no intention of turning his mean streak onto more deserving parties, for now – and that his jabs hit John exactly where they're meant to, just not quite in the way Sam intends.
Those are his thoughts at the time.
In hindsight, when he meets Sam again the next day, it's already too late.