Chapter Two

Time Heals Wounds Action Heals Souls

Brandt woke to pain that made him want to scream, but he was so weary that he could not move or open his eyes. His body felt like it was on fire, it felt as if it bubbled, his flesh slipping away to pool about him. And worse yet he could not look around to see it. A furious panic rose in him, it made his chest pound and rattled the bones within it. Darkness laid about him in a vice but he heard a voice in it.

"Both arms were broken in more than one place, every rib cracked and more of them than not were broken to pieces. His skull was fractured in twenty places as well as both legs. One thigh was broken, the same hip dislocated, both shoulders dislocated. His jaw dislocated, and many teeth are missing, all fingernails and toenails were gone. He is covered in such bruising from head to toe that in trying to clean him our maids took off layers of skin. The unholy filth that caked him by nearly the thickness of a fist, congealed to flesh, both came off in the scrubbing, and they did it thinking it was more filth. One hundred and sixty seven wounds required threads to close them. Ten pounds of dead flesh had to be removed from him."

The words did not comfort him at all. He thought about his status and suddenly a banner a bit different from the one he saw when he was killing goblins showed up.

Even knowing what he knew about the statuses of heroes and how they used it to get stronger, it was hard to decipher everything that he saw. There was so much information that it made his head swim in the darkness. With a single thought the offending status was gone leaving him alone with his thoughts the voices beyond it. He wanted to shrink within himself, pull his knees to chin and cover his belly and chest as he tucked his face in his arms. He could not get even a little relief from that, as he could not move.

"He looks surprisingly good for a dead man," A deeper voice said, "Or at least one who was supposed to die, it's a sad thing that he has no one to care for him."

"You shouldn't be so cavalier with announcing death, sir, me and my sisters worked hard to heal what we could of him."

"What you could...he looked relatively unharmed if a bit bony wasn't he as big as the blacksmith before?"

Irritation flavored the softer voice that told about his injuries, "Off you go, you are bothering my precious patient!"

"How dare you...I am the Headman, I run this village by the command of the Landgrave!"

"This is my house. I trust you haven't forgotten the old ways have you? Is not a woman's right higher than a kings rule under her own roof? Or should I ask your wife to educate you?"

"I am no hen-pecked sorry excuse for a man!" He said before quickly adding, "But there is no need for that, I'll get out of your hair. Still, I have to ask, is it even a kind thing to make the boy live? I do not engage in idle words, but it is known that the Landgrave's daughter went missing at the same time as the boy."

"Gossip is for empty headed men," The voice came back, this time with a deep sadness underlying each word. "Off you go, Headman, if you would please."

The world beyond the darkness grew quiet as the heavy steps faded from Brandt's ears. Still, he could barely pay attention to such sounds. What about my parents? Did they abandon me...would they come to see me after I ran away with little more than a note that explained I was not kidnapped? What did they mean, 'no one to care for me'? The silence beyond the darkness grew almost unbearable for Brandt. He had so many questions and no way to get them answered. Did the Landgrave kill them for my sin? Would he torture them because I thought to love one who was so far above my station? A raw pain that was so deep that he felt the ache in his bones, twisted in him but that was swallowed by guilt so thick that it would choke the life from him if it could. I don't deserve death and torture would provide some kind of payment for the suffering I cause, so I don't deserve that relief either. But my parents did nothing wrong, they gave me everything I could need and at the costs of their needs! I am a woefully, horrendous thing not fit to be called a man, or a boy, or even a human.

"Why is your face so troubled?" That soft voice said.

For a time Brandt did not know that, she was speaking to him, but when no one answered and she continued he got the hint.

"They say that one can hear from the Deep Healing Slumber, so I hope my words did not trouble too much. It is a miracle that you survived what you did."

I should have died and Sarah should have lived.

"That face of yours is too pretty by far for a man, but we know you to be a sweet boy so it would be a waste to lose you. The women of the village were sad to hear that you ran off but we heard that you and Lady Sarah were to marry in secret. I hoped against wisdom that you two could be happy. Many do not think ones such as we should even begin to bat eyes as those of fair birth, but I still hoped. It would have been like a fever dream if it came true."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Sarah. Brandt wanted to squeeze out he images of her cold beautiful face and torn bloody body, but he could not. He could not un-hear the crunch of broken bone, and wet slaps as the goblins tore into her. He could not block out her bloodcurdling screams.

"Why...why are you crying...most of the women of the village were rooting for you!"

The darkness swallowed him granting him a blissful world of nothing and not knowing. He was awoken by harsh voices some time later. Discombobulated he tried to see if he could open his eyes or move, even if it was just a finger in the darkness. Hope rose when he felt a tiny spark where his left pointer finger might have been. It died when nothing came of the spark. Darkness ruled the world all about him.

"Is he waking up?" A deep voice asked a voice that Brandt heard a few times as he tried to be near Sarah.

Another voice, this one cold and hard, deep as a cavern but young, spoke as if to answer the Landgrave, "I care not and you are not fit to pose question to one such as I."

"Apologies, Haeventael, I was thinking out loud, forgive this ignorant ant,"

"You are not high enough to ask for forgiveness with such vulgar words," the cold voice said dismissively, "You will answer me...The boy, I sense a powerful vessel within him, who is he?"

"He is a laborer at my great manor,"

There was a hard sigh of disgust before the Haeventael spoke again, "A great manor stretches beyond the limits of worlds, and a manor can swallow kingdoms with ease. What you have is a hovel for low things served by filth lower still." The way the man spoke made it sound like words were meant both to insult and to educate, "Your explanation is as lacking as your unkempt speech. I will see to the question myself."

Brandt felt a bolt of lightning shoot through him, turning flesh and bone unbearably cold as it passed through him. He would have screamed in agony had he control over his lungs, throat, and mouth.

"That is a surprise," The voice was still cold but this time there was something other than utter contempt for the world he found himself in.

"Your offspring lacks much, but she is the jewel of this ball of mud you call a world, but this one has my curiosity. You will further cultivate it for me, if you possess a fraction of a halfwit's sense you will prosper from this whelp. I will start its journey and you will fuel it better than you have already."

"I used your wisdom to show you what my daughter and I saw in this boy, thank you for this opportunity,"

The contempt came back as thick as ever, "The ploy you used was inelegant, the beasts crude, and the worst possible means to shape its clay. But you have a low mind and a need to be guided to true ambition. I will start its journey rightly."

Darkness swallowed him in waves of confusion. Letting his questions grow before it took his mind to a roiling sea of nothing. That nothing gave way to a mass of ferociously smelly green bodies. Waves of them broke upon him as he swung a too heavy sword and coated himself in the greenish blood of his enemies as he bled rivers of deep purple.

Brandt opened his eyes to a dark, windowless room. The room was small and empty save for an old wood framed bed with a linen wrapped straw mattress and pillow, and a stand with a small, lit lantern upon it. Brandt slowly flexed his fingers and toes, breathed in deep, and felt his eyes heat and a single tear roll down his cheek. It felt good to be able to move. He sat up, and placed his hand against wooded wall as a wave of nausea passed through him. His arm was so thin, the bones and tendons on the back of his hand stood out in stark relief to his flesh. It was not uncommon for grievous wounds to be healed without a scratch, but the cost was usually far more than any common serf to bear. The potions were the most expensive, Healers close to as costly, and the salves and herbs of good quality still higher than the cost of a good plot of farming land.

Brandt clenched his teeth and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The world tilted as he stood, and his knees buckled, but he caught himself on the side of the bed and forced himself upright. Breathing hard, face pointed at the ceiling Brandt waited for the world to right itself. He was clad in only a nightgown, but clothes lay folded at the foot of the straw bed along with a pair of old, gray-patched work boots.

He dressed himself slowly and in silence. He could not face his family nor could he face the ire of the Landgrave without some sort of tribute or offering to ease the passing of their daughter. He did not want to die but he did not want his parents to suffer for his actions. If I can bring back the head or hoard of a great monster perhaps, they will spare my parents. Brandt knew that nothing would spare his life. He also knew that nothing should be able to do so. He still felt weaker than he had felt in a long time, not counting his time in the forest slaying goblins. But he felt a powerful vitality clinging to him and a hunger so deep that it nearly made him sick. After checking himself for any wounds, he carefully made his way to the kitchen, through dark halls. This was the Headsman house, Brandt realized, it was two stories and bigger than any house in the village. He was sure the kitchen would be stocked.

As he rummaged through the cold larder, he thought about the lit lantern. No one would waste light on the sleeping, someone was supposed to visit him or check up on him. Perhaps, they were tired and left the lantern there when they went back to bed. Brandt thought, before another caprice rendered the first unlikely. The hallways were dark, the lantern could easily be knocked over and cause a fire. You pay attention to lit flames in a wooden house. Brandt planned to make his way to his home, gather provisions while his parents slept and wait for the morning in the barn before he could set out. He knew what the status banner meant and what all those ribbons that showed soulweight and wisdom. In the stories, heroes hunted dragons and goblins, beastmen, and lizardfolk to earn loot and level up their hero rank. If he could slay a dragon and steal its hoard, it would be a feat that would make the Landgrave spare the lives of his mother and father. He was sure nothing, no feat would be great enough to ensure his survival. He was better than sure that he did not deserve to accomplish such a feat, if it existed. I am a coward...if I die my coward blood will die with me.