Sir Macullen awoke with a start; as he sat up quickly,
urged to action by his nightmare, pain flared in his ribs. He placed
a hand on the fresh linen wrap that covered his healing wounds and
felt tenderness with his every touch. He slowly breathed in through
his nose and out through his mouth as he closed his eyes. His calm
was restored. He was a Knight of the 5th Realm and had
been trained to evoke calmness at times when other men would burst
into tears or release their bowels. Pain is weakness leaving the
body, he thought.
His brown hair tickled his forehead; it was starting to
grow unruly, a far cry from the short crop that he normally wore. He
swatted away the loose strands and then pressed his hand more firmly
onto the bandages and as agony blossomed from the pressure he
remembered how he had gotten the wound.
He had no idea how long he laid on the ground
waiting to die, but the battle had ended and the world had gone
quiet. He could almost remember when the elves picked him up off
the ground and carried him to this sanctuary, a haven it was
sometimes called, but the delirium that had set in kept any memories
of that escapade far from coherent.
A quiet stirring in the room brought his attention back
to the present, “Esthmerelda?”
“Not quite,”
came a familiar voice. It was the droning yet melodious voice of
Solethorn, the elf that visited him most often. He was also the elf
that had found him, nearly dead, on the field of battle. The elf had
dragged him over the bodies of the fallen and through pools of blood
to a waiting cart. Had the elf expected him to be there or was it a
coincidence? The elf certainly liked to play it up as if
the gods had ordained the entire event.
“Hy Brasil
called.” Even when speaking he sounded as if he was crooning a
hymn. “Therefore the caretaker is not in attendance.” Macullen
sneered at the phrase. While the Priests of Cypher were normally
skilled with the common tongue, unlike their seaborne cousins, they
still occasionally had communication issues. Solethorn used the word
“caretaker” often, but did not differentiate whether he actually
meant nurse or steward.
Macullen did not look
at the elf. “I presume you mean Esthmerelda is not here since you
obviously are.” As far as Solethorn was concerned he was the
caretaker of this sanctuary and Esthmerelda was the caretaker of
Macullen.
“How is your wound?” Solethorn often ignored
Macullen's questions or actively changed the subject.
“Progressing.” I
should be dead, Macullen
thought.
