#bloodflows

The fight was brutal, and though some came close to break them apart, they all stopped short and watched silently as Fernand tore into the man. François had been good to them, had always been eager to assist where he could. His son had stepped up to his father’s place, and had continued to work tirelessly in the two years since François’ death. 

Fernand stood up when it was over, spitting out some bloody phlegm onto the floor which was becoming a shocking shade of red. People watched him with a mix of nervous energy or quiet understanding. What used to be the man he had fought lay on the floor, breaths bubbling up as frothy scarlet between his lips. Fernand reached over to the bar, grabbing the ale that the man had left half drunk. “You aren’t going to finish this are you?” He was drunk on the adrenaline, making everything seem disjointed.

The man didn’t answer. “Non, I suppose not.” He took a swig to wash out his mouth, the ale having a new metallic tang. He poured the rest of it over his head in an attempt to wash the clotting blood off his face, which was making his left eye hard to open. His face was sore as he attempted to wipe it clean, seeing that he was only smearing the blood on his hands across his face now. He’d wash up on his way home. His breaths were shudders, and his body was shaking with rage and energy.

The sheer amount of blood that was coming out of the man on the floor was staggering. It was beginning to slow, but still it came. Fernand reached down, grabbing the man’s coin purse to toss some coins to the bar tender to make up for the trouble and clean up.

“Anybody else have anything to say about my sister?” He met their eyes with his open one, knowing he must look terrible as the blood stained him. “If any of you do, I’d recommend keeping it to yourself, unless you’d like to end up like Monsier Salop.” Fernand turned and made a shuddering walk from the tavern out to the street. 

Gerome followed behind him, “Fernand! Jésus-Marie-et-Joseph, Fernand.” Fernand pulled away sharply as he tried to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, falling down to his knees as he stumbled. The fading adrenaline left his body shaking viciously. His muscles ached, and pain was quickly taking the forefront for all his senses. “Please, Fernand. Let me take you to a doctor. I could never face your father if I let you die.” 

“Father is dead, Gerome! He isn’t coming back.” Fernand wasn’t sure if the ache in his stomach was from the ale, the fighting, or the memory of François. 

“I know that, Fernand. But his spirit lingers, as long as you live he is with you. He would understand why you did what you did back there.” Fernand’s gaze was unfocused as he stared down the street, seeming to look at something far in the distance. “I’m taking you to a doctor.”