“How is he?” a voice asks softly from outside the door as multiple boots approach.

“Not be good, sir. Not good at all. He’s lost a lot of blood,” Tim replies in a low voice. The steps pause for a moment before he continues in a whisper, “He’s badly wounded and untrustin’, seeming like for good reason. There are scars covering his body that be speaking of a hard, cruel life for the youngster. We need to be gentle with him or he’ll try to bolt.”

"I'll be careful, Tim. How's the ribs?"

A grunt. "Been better, sir, but nothing a little time won't fix."

The boots enter... three men other than Tim. I’m at their mercy. My muscles clench at the thought. Bolting sounds like an excellent plan; if only I had the strength.

Humor shoots through the panic at how thoroughly Tim read me in a brief time. My old masters would have me flanked for being straightforward in my actions. I say they can stuff it where the sun don't shine.

I force my panicked gasps to slow as I hear one man approach the table. His sweet scent of harvested wheat and alfalfa calms my nerves. Smelling the scents I associate with my adopted parents' home helps. They grew wheat and alfalfa in large quantities and I would’ve been helping them harvest alfalfa for the coming weeks as the moon brought in the Fall Blessings. But, there is a steel-like strength beneath the two crops. This is no man to mess with.

He also smells of coppery blood that is overpowered by a large dose of sincere Eucalyptus-like compassion. I flinch as what feels like unbearably icy fingers touches my shoulder. My eyes pop open.

I force myself to remain still and my gaze to remain passive even as I tremble beneath dread and anguish. I look up into those compassionate brown eyes with crow feet and smile lines upon a weathered face. His firm grip belies his kind, creased face. Here is a man used to action, but has the wherewithal and compassion to calm a wild animal.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Roland,” I whisper, unable to keep my true name from him.

His smile reaches his eyes. “Roland, thank you. You’ve saved my village, daughter, and granddaughter all in one night.” His voice becomes gruff. “Now let us save you.”

I close my eyes. Something tells me I can trust this man with kind eyes and steady hands... so I nod, trusting my instincts, even as I wish to bolt out the door and find a nice, quiet place to die. But that wouldn't help my family.

Stolen story; please report.

I'm in the hands of strangers now, as I have no other choice. I feel trapped and bone-weary at my lack of options, but the gentle manner of this man and the kindness of the healer puts me more at ease.

A grimace overtakes my mask as the healer puts pressure around the arrow.

“Let bleed,” I whisper.

“Do what now, my dear?” Her voice comes from directly next to my ear, as if she's leaning close to hear my hoarse voice.

“Silver. Let… bleed out.”

Her eyes widen. “If you lose much more blood, the silver won’t be what kills ya.” She turns to shout instructions to a man boiling tea, along with instructing Heather on the precise measurements needed for Arnica, Calendula and another herb I don't recognize.

“Preventing... healing.”

“What, I’m supposed to let ya bleed to death while I can do something?” she deadpans, her lips pinched in concern as she holds my head up so I can drink a concoction. It smells like the hind end of a donkey and tastes worse. More ended up on me than in me.

“Just bleed... out... silver. I’ll... live.” A detached part of my mind wonders why I’m arguing with a healer; another part wonders how I’m here at all. Would death be easier?

The pressure around the wound recedes. “I hope I'm doin’ the right thing.” She gives. “Hold him. Sweetheart.” I look at her as best as I can as hands grab my legs and shoulders, my flinches disguised as shivers. “This is going to hurt somethin’ awful. The tea should kick in and help, but...”

I tamp down any remaining fear and clench my jaws tightly. The hand on my left gently squeezes my shoulder, and I look up at the Brown-Eyed Man. He places a strip of leather between my waiting teeth.

I nod in thanks, and he gives my shoulder another reassuring squeeze.

I nod down to the healer.

She eases the bolt from my leg with a patience borne of many such wounds. But this is different. My entire leg is aflame with the silver, an infection on par with a venomous snake bite for humans. Imagine being half infected with a poisonous liquid that feels like ice, while half of your blood takes the fight personally and heats to the point of scalding to prevent the venom from spreading. Not fun.

I clench my muscles to hold still, but I can't help the way my body shakes. It starts as shivers but continues until my whole being shakes.

“Hold him!” a woman’s commanding voice yells.

I feel weight drape across my chest as they use body weight to keep me down. Attempting to keep down both the spasms and the urge to fight is a battle. I’m trapped in unbearable agony. Instincts demand I fight and live. Reasoning demands I lie still and die. Go figure.

At last, the bolt slips free. I feel blood and ice stream free of the wound. They place rags over the wound to stop the flow.

I spit out the leather strip I bit in two. “Not... yet!”

The rags stop. “He’s still conscious?”

“How’s he even alive?”

“Unnatural.”

“He saved your lives. Give some respect,” the Brown-Eyed Man barks.

I ignore the voices and focus on the ice leaving my veins. The cleansing fire surges, struggling to fight the ice down and out.

Veins filled with ice gives way to the fire in my blood, and at long last I feel the silver leave my blood through the hole in my leg. My breathing evens out. The quakes stop.

“Now,” I whisper, sapped of strength.

A needle and thread enter my frayed nerves, and it’s the last I can handle. Black envelopes my vision.