The young freckle-faced woman named Megan fussed around him with a number of strange devices. She began by wrapping a slim band around his upper arm and pressing the two ends together. Then, she placed a cold, round, amulet-like item on his skin, under the wrap, that had tubes running to her ears.

"And so the siphoning of my dark essence begins," Morthisal muttered.

"Let’s start small, and then we’ll work up to your dark essence. Now, just relax your arm for me."

The cuff tightened around his arm. She adjusted something along the side and the pressure relenated with a hiss of expelled air. She spun and moved to another strange device, and tapped at something he could not see.

The woman turned again and placed a small device on his finger. "This is to check your oxygen levels. Just keep still for a moment."

Morthisal stared at the glowing red light on the device. “Another attempt to drain my life force?”

"Not yet. We let the night crew handle that." She smiled brightly. "I'm just checking your vitals. This is a hospital, and we prefer that our patients hang onto their life force. Your oxygen levels look good, but your blood pressure is a little high. I'll notify the doctor. Now for your temperature."

"Temperature?" Morthisal scoffed. Moments ago, perched on his throne, she would have found that his body had burned with the fires of the Abyss itself.

She leaned over with a handheld device and tried to touch his head.

Fearing a spell, he pulled away.

"Oh, come on, Vincent. This won't hurt."

"Away from me with your infernal device." He darted his head away again as she once again tried to touch him. "You will not touch me, peasant!"

Her eyebrows went up and she pulled back slightly. "Speaking of your dark essence, if you keep talking like that, we'll need to bring in a few more nurses so I can take your temperature the old-fashioned way."

She smiled brightly again and cocked her head to the side.

"Okay, look." Megan rolled the device over her arm. The tiny spell caster emitted a pair of chirps.

Morthisal blinked a few times and shook his head to clear his thoughts. Go along with the ruse, he admonished himself. As soon as you are free of these bindings, you will be able to make your escape.

This time, he allowed her to roll the device across his forehead.

The device chirped again. "96.4," the woman announced. "That’s a little concerning. I’ll bring you some heated blankets."

“No need. I am perfectly warm.”

She didn’t seem to acknowledge his words. Megan continued tapping away at a device that resembled a long tablet covered in flat-topped pebbles. Her fingers danced across them. Her right hand moved another odd stone on a string next to the tablet.

As she prepared to leave, Morthisal called out to her. "Wait!"

She stopped. “Yes?”

“As you are clearly a cleric or of a healing class, so tell me. Will my powers soon return?”

The cleric came back and patted his hand sympathetically. "The doctor will be in to see you soon. Try to relax, Mr. Logan."

The cleric pulled a thin curtain closed, blocking his view of the hallway. Morthisal found himself alone once more, adrift in a sea of confusion and disconnected thoughts. The potion coursing through his system made it impossible to focus and make sense of his situation. He stared at the ceiling, finding strange white star-like patterns.

"Logan," he mumbled to himself as his eyelids grew heavy. "Who in the thirty-nine hells are you, Logan?”

----------------------------------------

Morthisal lay in the clean white room. He tested his bonds by pushing against them. He tried to slither out by pulling himself down, but his feet could stretch no further. Morthisal thrashed up and down though it was no use. He was trapped. When would they bring in their torturers?

Beneath the haze, the unfamiliar warmth that had been spreading through him had somewhat abated. The pleasant sensation reminded him of the potent brews he once imbibed in his dark halls. Yet this was different—more soothing. He wished for more of it—much more.

Another cleric bustled into the room, placed a pair of vials on a small silver tray, and rolled it next to him.

"Hello. I just need a little blood. Hold still," the woman said brusquely.

Morthisal, still floating on a warm cloud, nodded languidly and didn't remark on the sharp sting in the crook of his right arm.

The woman worked quickly, placing a small piece of puffy white cloth over the stung area and applying an adhesive strip.

"Have a nice afternoon, Mr. Logan," the woman said, leaving as quickly as she had arrived.

Morthisal closed his eyes, and drifted off again.

----------------------------------------

The door swung open again, and two more healers entered, pushing a cart with a strange contraption atop it. Wheels squeaked against the polished floor as they positioned it beside his bed.

"Hi there, Mr. Logan. We're here to do a quick EKG," one of them said.

Morthisal's tongue felt thick in his mouth. The pleasant warmth from their earlier elixir still coursed through his veins, dulling his usual sharp edges. Perhaps observing their ritual would provide insight into this realm's magic.

"Very well," he said, his voice coming out softer than intended.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Their fingers worked quickly at the buttons of his shirt, pulling the fabric aside. The cool air hit his exposed chest. One of them pressed small, circular devices against his skin in various places while the other connected thin wires to each one.

"Okay, Mr. Logan. Please lie still. This won't take long."

As if he had a choice.

The machine hummed to life with a series of beeps and whirs. A long piece of parchment emerged from its side, covered in jagged lines that reminded him of mountain ranges on his old war maps.

Something tugged at the back of his mind. The veil. It shimmered on his periphery. He reached for it, and surprisingly felt a thread. Just one. He tried to seize it, but it slipped from his grasp.

One of the healers studied the paper intently, nodding to herself. "Everything looks good here, Mr. Logan. Your heart rhythm is normal."

They peeled off the circular devices and gathered their equipment with practiced efficiency. Within moments, they had wheeled their cart back out the door, leaving Morthisal alone once more.

"What in the world just happened?" He quietly wondered out loud. Then he found himself again enveloped by a warm cloud.

----------------------------------------

A gentle knock interrupted his slumber. The door swung open, revealing a woman clad in strange, pristine garments. She wore an open, thin white jacket with a plain maroon shirt beneath. Her attire bore no resemblance to the robes of healers or alchemists he knew. She wore a small rectangular object similar to the one Megan had worn, but this was larger and had strange symbols around the name.

"Good afternoon," she said, her voice carrying a soothing cadence. "I'm Dr. Hargrove.”

Morthisal's eyes narrowed, scanning her for any hint of arcane energy or hidden weaponry. Again, his powers were unreachable. He sighed in frustration.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Dr. Hargrove approached his bedside, her steps measured and unhurried.

“You are a bit strange looking for a torturer.”

“Am I? What makes you think someone intends to torture you?”

“It is what I would do.”

She scribbled something on a strange parchment in her left hand. "I see. I'm here to help patients who might be experiencing confusion or distress. Besides fearing torture, how are you feeling today?"

"I... am well enough, given the circumstances," Morthisal replied, his words carefully chosen.

She nodded, making a note on the flat surface she carried. "Are you experiencing any pain or discomfort?"

Morthisal considered the question. "My body feels... distant. As though it were not my own.”

Dr. Hargrove's eyebrow arched slightly. "That's not uncommon after a mild sedative. Can you tell me your name?"

"I am called Morth..." Morthisal hesitated, remembering he needed to immerse himself in his fabricated identity. "Logan. Or Vincent. Though I confess, much of my memory eludes me."

"I see," she murmured, her quill-like instrument jigging across the surface. She moved toward the bed, leaned over, and inspected the bandage on his forehead. She pulled it back and let out a little gasp. “That looks painful. I’ll order a CT scan. Now, is there anyone we can call?”

“Call?”

“Yes.”

“Call to someone? I don’t understand.”

“On your phone. It’s locked. If you prefer, you can unlock it, and we can call your emergency contact.”

And how will you call across the void, through the nether realms, to my armies? He didn’t say it out loud.

“Very well,” he played along.

“Excellent. We'll see to that in a few moments. Now. Can you tell me about your day today?”

I, the most powerful necromancer Mythralon has ever known, was nearly defeated but hours ago. The dark sorceress, and my sometimes lover, Thalindra helped me cast a spell that seems to have been from before the cataclysm that sundered my home world.

“It had been… dark. There was rain.”

She nodded. “Yes. There was rain today. Can you tell me about your morning? How did you get to work this morning?”

“I do not know.”

She ‘hmm’d’ and wrote more notes.

Dr. Hargrove’s tone became reassuring. "Let's try something simpler. Tell me about your family or loved ones?"

Family? Love? Such concepts were as foreign to him as this strange realm. "I... I cannot recall," he said, feigning distress. "My mind is a blank slate."

Dr. Hargrove nodded sympathetically. "That's alright. Memory loss is not uncommon after head trauma. In most cases it doesn't last long. I understand you had a bit of a seizure and hit a chair leg. Head wounds can bleed more than a typical scratch, and it can look very scary. We'll get you sorted. What about your occupation? Do you remember what you do for a living?"

Morthisal's mind raced. What did mortals in this realm do to sustain themselves? "I... I believe I worked with... people," he said hesitantly. "Guiding them, perhaps?"

"A leadership role?" Dr. Hargrove prompted. "I see."

"Yes," Morthisal replied, seizing upon the suggestion. "I led... many. It is fulfilling work."

The doctor made another note. "I see. And can you remember any specific tasks or responsibilities from your work?"

Morthisal knew he should stop, but he couldn’t help it. The warm effects of the sedative, as Doctor Hargrove had called it, still warmed his mind. "I... I commanded... resources. Made decisions that affected many lives."

Dr. Hargrove's expression stayed neutral. Her quill moved swiftly across the surface. "That sounds like an important position. Do you recall the name of your company or organization?"

"I... I do not," Morthisal. "The details elude me, like shadows in the night."

The doctor's eyebrow quirked again at his choice of words. "You have quite a way with language, Vincent. Even with your memory issues, your vocabulary is rather unique."

Morthisal realized his error too late. "Perhaps... perhaps I was a bard?" he offered weakly.

"A bard?” She smiled. “Maybe." Dr. Hargrove nodded. “Let's move on. Can you tell me the last thing you remember before being in the ambulance?"

Morthisal closed his eyes, feigning concentration. Ambulance? That must have been the flying contraption he’d been locked in. "There was... a battle," he said, allowing a fragment of truth to slip through. "No, not a battle.” He coughed. “An accident, perhaps? Yes. An accident. Everything is a blur. There were men and a rude woman in a room demanding of me… something. Staying alive. Yes. That was it. They demanded I stay alive."

Dr. Hargrove leaned forward. "Fascinating."

Morthisal's eyes drifted to the hallway outside the room, men and women dressed similarly sped past as the nurse and doctor. His eyes followed them. One held a device to the side of his head and spoke into it.

This was a very peculiar world.

The doctor made another note, her expression unreadable. "Vincent. Memory can be tricky after trauma, and judging by that nasty wound on your forehead, you took a pretty hard knock. Is there anything else you'd like to share? Anything that feels important, even if it doesn't make sense?"

Morthisal hesitated, then said, "I... I cannot say. My mind is a labyrinth, and I fear I've lost the thread that would guide me through it."

"I see. Last question, and this may seem odd, but it is something I must ask. Do you feel like you wish to harm yourself, or others?"

I would very much like to harm others. "No. Such urges do not currently proliferate my mind."

Dr. Hargrove barely suppressed another smile and head shake. She rose from her seat. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Logan. We'll continue to monitor your condition. Is there anything you need before I go?"

Morthisal shook his head. "No." He tried to lift his hands. “But the bindings. Aren’t they a bit much?”

Dr. Hargrove nodded and said. “We’ll see about taking those off. You seem very calm to me.”

As Dr. Hargrove left the room, Morthisal allowed himself a small sigh of relief that he had survived the conversation without revealing his true nature.

Megan returned and placed a warm blanket on his body, though he protested. But… it felt good, comforting. The last few hours had been exhausting. Morthisal closed his eyes for a moment—just a moment—and he would be ready to…