Drunken Intercession

The dog stayed latched to the drunk’s forearm—teeth buried, body braced low, leash trailing on the cobbles. Lantern light slicked its wet coat to a shine.

“Get it off me!”

The drunk lifted his free fist and slammed it down into the dog’s head.

“Stop hitting it,” Rishi said.

The drunk struck again. The dog’s head snapped sideways. Its legs skidded on wet stone, but its jaws did not open.

“It bit me!”

Rishi moved before the third blow landed.

He caught the loose leash close to the collar, where the dog’s mouth could not turn back on him, and pulled up and sideways before it could brace.

The drunk’s arm came with the dog. The bite broke.

The dog hit the cobbles yelping and backed away in a tight, shaken arc, hackles up, head low.

“You bastard,” the drunk spat, and swung at Rishi.

Rishi was already inside the swing.

He caught the man’s wrist, stepped through his balance, and drove a shoulder into his chest.

Breath blasted out of the drunk. His knees dipped.

He hauled the drunk backward into the street, away from the dog, away from the doorway, keeping the wounded arm high enough that the man could not turn it into another swing.

The drunk fought, but it came out clumsy—rage, drink, and pain pulling in different directions.

The tavernkeeper flashed at the edge of his vision, retreating into the tavern.

Rishi did not follow.

He kept the drunk moving. Kept space open. Kept the doorway from becoming a trap.

The tavernkeeper reappeared with a crossbow coming up, rain beading on the arms.

He hunted a shot until his aim settled.

A sharp screech sliced down from above.

Maeril’s familiar—the hawk—dropped out of the rain, not past the crossbow but into it—wings hammering across the tavernkeeper’s face, talons scraping over wood and knuckles.

“Get off!”

The tavernkeeper flinched. The crossbow jerked sideways as his finger clenched.

The crossbow string snapped dry.

The bolt hissed past Rishi’s shoulder and slammed into the wall wide of them, hard enough to spit wet splinters into the lane.

For one breath, the drunk went still.

Rishi took the opening. He pulled the man off balance and drove him to one knee on the cobbles.

The drunk tried to rise.

“Stay down,” Rishi said.

He thrashed anyway.

Rishi struck him once in the ribs.

Air burst out of the drunk in a harsh bark. His body folded around the blow, and he collapsed onto the wet stone, one hand scraping uselessly at the cobbles before he went still.

Rishi released him carefully.

Across the lane, the tavernkeeper raised the spent crossbow again, hands shaking with anger and fear.

Rishi did not move toward him.

He opened his hands instead, palms bare in the rain.

“Stay back,” the tavernkeeper said. His voice cracked around the words. “He comes at my door again, I’ll put the next one through him.”

“He’s done,” Rishi said.

“He near killed my dog.”

“I know.”

The tavernkeeper’s mouth twisted. The crossbow wavered between Rishi and the man on the stones.

Rishi kept his hands raised. “Please. Let me take this man off the street.”

Rain ticked on wood and iron.

The tavernkeeper breathed hard through his nose. His eyes flicked to the drunk, to the dog, to the bolt buried in the wall.

“Take him, then,” he said. “And if he comes back—”

“He will not come back.”

The crossbow sank by inches.

Rishi waited until the weapon stayed down. Then he moved to the drunk, took him by shoulder and belt, and pulled him upright just enough to walk.

The drunk sagged into him with dead heaviness—sour breath, wet wool, damp leather. The bitten forearm hung awkwardly at his side, wrapped only in rain and shock for now, the air around it sharp with blood-salt.

Each step drew an answer from the bruises beneath Rishi’s ribs and along his forearms. He kept his pace and chose streets he knew, straight lines where lanterns were already coming on and the docks’ smell began to rise.

Lantern Hall’s light showed ahead like relief and obligation wearing the same face. He felt it in his chest before he reached the threshold.

Inside, the common room held its usual warmth: worn wood, soot in the grain, low light that never fully chased the corners away. A few tables. A few chairs. The steady quiet of a place that kept taking in what the city threw out.

Elisa was at the altar, still as a prayer held in both hands. Lantern Hall’s spiritual anchor. The one who mended what words could reach when wounds ran deeper than flesh. A small flame’s glow held to her face and left everything else in gentle shadow.

She lifted her gaze only enough to register him and the limp body at his side. Her eyes held him a beat longer than the wounded man—long enough for him to know she had been listening for the door. Then something in her face softened, small and controlled, and the tension left her.

“Dog bite?” Elisa asked softly.

“Yes,” Rishi said.

Her eyes moved over him, quick and practiced. “You’re not bleeding.”

“No.”

He guided the drunk through as if he’d done it a hundred nights in a row. He checked the small room kept for the poor and wounded. Four bunks. All taken. Breath and sleep already rationed there, bodies wrapped in the Hall’s thin mercy.

He did not waste time wishing for more.

He brought the drunk back out. Rishi laid a bedroll on the common room floor, where the man could be seen and managed, then lowered him onto it. He arranged blankets to keep the drunk from rolling or trapping the injured arm beneath his bulk. The man muttered once, thick with drink, then sank into heavy breathing.

Adequate. Contained. Safe enough to get through the night.

Rishi drew a lantern closer and brought what he needed from the supplies nook.

Then he knelt beside the drunk and inspected the arm.

The coat had blunted the worst of the dog’s bite, but the wound was still ugly: ragged edges, rain-filth, swelling already gathering under skin. Street wounds always tried to become worse by morning.

Rishi cut the sleeve away, flushed the bite clean, and waited through the drunk’s half-waking twitch without making it a struggle. He worked slowly because haste was how wounds learned to rot.

When the water ran clear enough to trust, he salved the torn skin and wrapped the forearm snug against the man’s chest, built to survive drunken sleep.

The man twitched once, then settled. His breathing thickened into a dull rhythm.

Alive. Contained. No longer one more body the street could steal.

Rishi stood, and the day finally reached him. Fatigue wasn’t drama. It was weight in the joints. Ache in the ribs. A faint tremor that wanted to start and didn’t—held back by habit.

He did the last small caretaker sweep—doors, corners, the common room’s quiet—then went to his small room as if it were another duty.

He lay on the plank bed, pulled blanket and fur up, and let his hands go still at his sides. For a moment he took one measured breath—in, out—and kept it plain.

Finally.

It’s been a long two days.

Tomorrow: cold plunge. Breathing. Stretching. Training.

I’ll be myself again.

He closed his eyes and let the Hall settle around him.