Arc 1: Chapter 6: Kindness of Strangers
The first thought I had, when I had any again, was that Hell wasn’t quite as warm as I’d thought it would be.
Hearing came after thought. I could hear the crackling of fire, and that seemed appropriate. Insects chirped and wind whispered through leaves, which seemed a bit out of place. The surface beneath me was hard and uneven, but I rested on a rough cloak or blanket. My hands searched and I found grass.
Alive. I was still alive. The thought gave me more worry than relief. Where was—
“I wouldn’t suggest moving too much,” a scratchy, mellow voice said. “You’re in a bad way, son, and I put a lot of effort into those stitches.”
I opened my eyes and ran them over my surroundings. I was in the forest still, and there were stars overhead. A campfire crackled nearby, and I had been stripped naked. My body was covered in layers of bandaging and, though sore, I was no longer bleeding my life out into the woodland undergrowth.
I was not alone. A figure sat opposite the fire, watching me. He was an old man, somewhere in the uncertain years beyond fifty, with a fringe of gray hair around a wide, leathery face tanned by sun. He was clad in a thick brown robe and watched me with deep-set, patient eyes the color of a moonlit lake. a pair of spectacles covered those eyes, making them appear huge and owlish.
“You,” the old man said, “should not be awake. I gave you some very strong poultices.” He frowned as though annoyed at me.
I didn’t reply, instead testing my own body. I wiggled my toes, then my fingers, making sure everything worked. Everything hurt, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad sign. There was a curious numbness throughout my whole body, and something in the back of my mind muttered a panicked warning at that. I tried to speak and my voice emerged as a dull, nearly sub-audible croak.
The old man — a monk I thought, by his woolen robes — stood to hand me a skin I found to be full of water. He helped me drink it, and I was familiar enough with being wounded to let him. When I was able to speak, I did so in a hoarse whisper. “You’re a healer?” I swallowed, trying to better wet my throat. “A priest?”
The old man’s thin lips twitched. “A doctor, actually. Olliard of Kell, at your service.” His eyelids lowered and he inclined his head in something approximating a bow.
A potion brewer, I thought. An herbalist. He’d mentioned poultices, which explained the numbness in my limbs and my blurry thoughts. “How…” I tried to sit up and nearly blacked out as a lance of agony went through my hip.