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.