I woke in the most comfortable bed that ever existed. Some might argue the point; that there were other more comfortable beds; or that I had a 'simulated life experience' and couldn't possibly know; or that modern textile manufacturing, fabric softeners, two-thousand thread count sheets, and latex foam rendered a feudal mattress stuffed with whatever soft junk they could find obsolete. But I wasn't in any of those beds, I was in this one, and it was the most comfortable bed that ever existed.
"I think he's awake," someone said.
"He's not," I said, proud of my clever ruse.
"Well if he's still asleep that's unfortunate as his breakfast will be cold soon."
"He's awake," I said, sitting up.
But there was no breakfast, only lies.
I glared at the deceiver, a middle-aged woman with a generous allotment of laugh lines, and an even more generous set of frown lines. She was wearing a neat smock with a practical number of pockets, that number being more than could be counted at a glance. I saw bunches of dried herbs, linen wraps, needles, and a hundred other minor tools and necessities for the art of healing. She was a doctor, and I could immediately tell that she was highly conversant in the language of expressions I had used so pointedly on Hugh the day before.
This is what her expression said: "You are someone who likes to cause trouble, doesn't take enough care of themselves, and has a big mouth. You will inevitably return to my presence and it will be my obligation to care for you, but that experience can be as pleasant or unpleasant as I wish. I am the woman who will keep you from dying, I have seen a hundred boys and girls—yes boy, you are all boys to me—just like you die in my hands and I have saved a thousand more. I'm sure you are very clever, but I have just recently cleaned your privates of the shit and piss that coated them, so pardon me if I am unimpressed. You are fine, you are taking up a bed, and I have many more serious injuries to tend to."
"Yes ma'am. Sorry ma'am. It won't happen again (lie, but an obligatory one). Could I please have some pants?" I said aloud.
The smile I received was the barest glint of a smirk, the glimmer of sun when it strikes a ripple in a pond, but it was there.
She turned to the waiting nurse, a bookish young man with wire spectacles, "He's about your size William, could you fetch him a pair of breeches?"
He bowed gently and moved to obey, leaving me alone with the doctor.
I gently probed the wrappings around my throat, but was surprised to find that not only was their no pain, I couldn't detect any wound at all.
She pulled my hands down firmly.
"The damage was much less than should be expected, you were very lucky. A few weeks and you’ll be right as rain.” She looked at me pointedly. I was missing something. The damage wasn’t just minor, it was gone. Now why were we trying to be discreet about it?
I nodded solemnly, and a pressing question arose in my mind.
"Is Lady Elskia alright?"
She stiffened at my question, just slightly, but enough for me to tell.
"Her Ladyship is fine, she suffered a minor scratch, one that I'm due to check in on shortly. She requested your presence upon waking, so once those breeches arrive we can be on our way," her voice was clear and strong, and while she didn't do anything so overt as glance around for listeners, her eyes darted to the side.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
I casually followed her look and saw a pair of guards stationed by the door to the infirmary. Ahh. More lies. Elskia wasn't fine, but that was being kept under wraps.
I acquiesced to a further show of examination, but we both knew the facade that was underway. The scholarly pants-lender arrived shortly and then there was nothing stopping the doctor and I from heading on to Elskia.
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Elskia was positioned in the centre of a grand four-poster bed. She looked small, dominated by the size of her bed, but also undeniably fragile. The bandages on her throat mirrored my own. A professional to the end, he'd tried to finish her off.
The doctor went to her side and immediately began to perform the almost ritualized sequence of readings and assessments all healers do.
"No, Dr. Grimblood, don't fuss, I'm alright," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Dr. Grimblood, that was hilarious. I kept my face entirely schooled, but something must have given me away by the look Dr. Grimblood whipped back at me. She squinted suspiciously but ultimately returned her attention to Elskia.
"Two weeks of bed-rest, longer if you strain yourself. If you hadn't used the entirety of your Elixir on your man it would be much shorter."
"He needed it." And I could tell that whatever break of trust I'd feared had been swept away by my efforts the night before.
"Yes well, if we make a habit of providing priceless healing draughts to every moron with self-inflicted knife wounds there'll be none to go around," I coughed in surprise, and got a cutting look back, "You thought I didn't know? Please. I've seen my share of real stabbings, discrepancies stand out. At least you had a good reason for it."
"I think I made the right choice," Elskia gave me a faint smile, "now if you'll excuse us, Hero and I have much to discuss."
And so I learned the events of the night before, and the dilemma we now found ourselves in.
After my strike on the leader the guards had indeed seen their opportunity and rushed the remaining assassins. His last act was to weakly cut at Elskia's throat—I'm sure not out of revenge, but because he believed in the principle that bad faith negotiations should be punished. I would have done the same thing. I missed him, we would have gotten on.
Doctor Grimblood had already been on her way, informed by someone sensible that a naked man with a knife wound was running around the keep, and arrived just in time. The Doctor was entrusted with an Elixir for exclusive use by the Baron's family—a tincture that would heal any wound—and Elskia insisted that I receive it over her. But when I began to thank her, Elskia silenced me.
"Don't mistake me, it was a selfish choice Hero. Three guards were dying from the battle with the nightblades, I could have stabilized all three with what was used for you. Your injuries were severe, but Grimblood already knew that both you and I would live. Do you understand?"
I did. None of those guards could help her claim to the Barony as I could, as I had. She hadn't forgone the Elixir out of fear for me, but because she couldn't afford to give me weeks of recovery time. She was beginning to play the game. The subterfuge that followed had all been at her behest as well. She needed to appear strong, a dozen people had seen her throat cut, so as far as anyone knew she had been given the Elixir. I, in turn, needed to pretend to a less than miraculous healing.
As to why the assassin's had targeted us... No one knew.
Fuck off, of course it was Roderick. She knew it was Roderick, I knew it was Roderick, the fucking worm in the mud on the ass of a goat down in Mudtown knew it was Roderick. But the clever bastard had been attacked as well, bravely fending off a quartet of assassins in front of multiple witnesses. The theory going around was that some rival was attempting to cull the Baron's bloodline, an act Roddy was decrying as 'the indefensible grasping of a depraved evil', to anyone who would listen.
And the next trial was coming. Even when he failed, he won. A hunt had been declared, an open objective to head into the wilderness and bag the most impressive prey they could. The Baron had been a great lover of the hunt after all, it was a fitting tribute to his memory. It was here in our conversation that Elskia turned sentimental.
"A fitting tribute, any other time that would be true. He did love to hunt, even if he'd been dreadful at it for years. He met my mother on a hunt, I suppose it reminded him of her. Of course he also did his share and more of drinking and whoring on hunts, and he loved those a great deal as well," she snorted, it was... the most adorable effort, and utterly dissonant to her nature, "Maybe those should be tasks. Of course I'm sure Roderick would trounce me. He's so like father, just...without any of the compassion." She looked sad then, clearly dwelling on the pain of what I realized must be a true betrayal.
"It sounds like you really cared for the Baron," I ventured.
"As well as you can love anyone so flawed. I never knew my mother of course, so father was my world for years. He didn't know what to do with me, I think that's why he let Roderick so close, to have someone to traipse around with. But he loved me, even if we didn't understand each other. What about you Hero? You came to us so young, do you remember anything of your parents?"
I was thrown off by the question. I had avoided thinking too deeply about my appearance in this world, how I arrived fully enmeshed in their lives but without any memories of my own. It all seemed too real, too complex. I didn't understand how the Dungeon worked. Were they real? Was any of this? I didn't know. But truthfully, I was not one to judge. I had been silent too long.
"I...I think they're like ghosts. I feel like there are pieces of them in me... but I can't, I know it can't be true."
"I think...regardless of whether there's anything of them in you, that they'd be proud of what you've made of yourself. And maybe that's enough?"
I nodded slowly. But the moment had become too real for someone as fake as me.
"Elskia...," I murmured.
"Yes Hero?"
"Can I have some of your hair?"