"He's here!" A voice screamed with desperation. "I've found Sir Keiss!" 

"He's alive?!" A shocked voice responded. "Quickly, send for the Weaver!" 

Henry Keiss felt a heavy weight lift from his body. He took a guess and assumed that it was the horse that had fallen on him somewhere towards the end of the battle. His entire body ached in a curious way he wasn't used to. It was not a throbbing pain, but a sort of burning heat across his entire existence that came and went. 

He could not move his body even as he felt every inch of it, and his eyes were blurred by the rain falling against his face. He could not close his eyes and he could not swallow. He felt as if he was a corpse suffering the most horrific of fates, awareness without true movement. He felt something grab his legs and his blurry view began to change.

"Easy, you fools." He heard the elderly voice of the Weaver. It had become a comforting tone, to say the least. "Prop him up on the wagon and be gentle, I cannot know the extent of his wounds until we get him away from here." 

Henry wanted to say something as they placed him on the wagon. He wanted to express his feelings in words, or sounds if that failed. He did not want to beg for his life or plead for the Weaver to place him out of his misery. Henry just really wanted to express himself to make sure that he was not in a dream. It was such a strange feeling, and an odd desire. 

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"It's true what they say. The Owl Knight really is cursed."

"Shut it." The Weaver responded harshly. 

"I just-"

"I don't care what you meant. Not here and not now. Make yourself useful and grab the reigns while I tend to Sir Keiss." 

As the wagon began to move, a familiar face appeared in Henry's vision. Not a single strand of hair on his head, but a white beard that fell down to his chest. This was the man known only by his occupation. This was the Weaver. Not quite magic, which hadn't been common for years, but something close to it. 

"Henry." He spoke and then fell silent, as if he was weighing the words in his head. "I'm sure you know, but Lord Toris is dead. So is Sir Galan and Sir Peters. Even Kolding is dead. Despite the rumors, you are a very lucky man." 

When Henry naturally didn't respond, the Weaver sighed and continued "I cannot fathom how much pain you must be in. I cannot even promise that I can save you. But I know you, Sir Keiss, and I know you are strong."

Henry felt something soft across his face as the Weaver used a cloth to wipe the rain away. He noticed that the Weaver was doing his best to sit over him and cover him with the long robes that he wore. It was a small comfort that Henry felt was proof that the Weaver meant well. 

 "It's not your fault." He spoke as if he could read Henry's mind. "I'm sure you fought as hard as you could." 

If Henry could talk. If the Owl Knight could speak. He would have argued that the Weaver was wrong. Henry Keiss was a cursed individual, who brought nothing but misfortune to his allies and loved ones. That is what the Toris believed, and as he lay there it was what Henry truly believed. 

He found the strength to close his eyes, and hoped to dream of a better time. A time before the Battle of Blue Hill.