Odd occurrings have just happened before David’s eyes—first, it was a woman who appeared out of thin air, and then, there was lightening that rose around her figure, until it disappeared again, and left her powerless. Fainted, across the ground.
Without a bout of hesitation, he dashes toward the young woman, and asks her, if she is okay. If she is in need of assistance—aid, that he will gladly give her. For even if he does not understand what is going on, David has a feeling—judging from his current environment, which resembles a home filled with books and strange knickknacks—that perhaps, he is the one, who was in the wrong all along.
He wants to make it up to her. This mysterious, interesting user of the magical arts. An enchantress, David thinks, as he swallows, hard, and tries to hold back his excitement. This is the first time I have ever met one in my life—perhaps, I could ask her for help in finding my lost comrades in arms!
The ex-mercenary recalls the training he had received from the Army’s healer—although he barely had the opportunity to test out what he learned during his time there, David figures that the enchantress’s wounds cannot be that much different from pain earned in battle.
He kneels by her side. Turns her until she is facing him, with a gentle push against her shoulder. The ex-mercenary does his best to keep his beating heart calm, at the sight of the most beautiful person he has ever seen in his life.
He gulps. Thinks, that he must be a masochist, for this stranger has just tried to kill him, and here he is, falling head over heels for her.
Upon further inspection, it does not seem as though the enchantress has been victim to any lethal injuries. However, she won’t wake up, no matter how much David tries for a response; and the ex-mercenary finds himself forced to wrap an arm around her waist, before he carries her to what seems to be her bed—a rectangular stone table, peppered in dried hay and blankets that have been sewn together many a too time.
David wonders, how long it is that she has been living here, alone, without a soul for company. It must be lonely, he thinks, before he shakes the thought away, starts looking through her cupboards with humble apologies muttered under his breath, and the intent of finding any balms or bandages he could use to treat her wounds woven within each of his careful movements.
The first two run-down wooden cabinets—which were likely stolen from a nearby village’s landfill—do not contain anything that could be of use to him. Old teapots. Mountains of journals bound by leather, that seem to be handmade. Tattered clothes. Ancient flower petals kept in jars—there is in fact, everything, but, what David needs.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Stricken by a slight, curious urge, the ex-mercenary reaches for one of the notebooks that he opens, briefly. Reads the first line that says, Dear, friend.
And the second, where it is written, I am starving, there is nothing to eat, and I was not able to give myself an orgasm yet again—am I doomed? What is wrong with me, friend?
David shrieks. His eyes widen as he throws the journal into the air in a fit of panic, catches it, then shuts it once more and puts it back where he found the dratted object. If there’s one thing the ex-mercenary can be certain of, it is that he was definitely not meant to read that entry—and probably neither of the other ones, now that he thinks about it. Though, he is curious as to why they were all signed by someone donning the name of Alexander. Do these not belong to the enchantress?
Or, is he mistaken, and the enchantress is actually an enchanter?
David makes a mental note to himself, to ask this question to the magic-user that is still passed out before him, once they will have awoken. Then, he gets back to work in his search for medicinal aids, in order to stop the bleeding from the magic-user’s badly scraped arm.
Finally—a couple seconds later—David’s fingers collide with soft gauze, and what seems to be the magic-user’s home-brewed disinfectant. The ex-mercenary collects whatever else he can find alongside those items, then rushes back to his patient’s side.
Alexander—or, rather, David supposes, the person who may or may not be Alexander—is breathing heavily and shivering against his stone mattress.
“Shit,” David mutters under his breath, as he clicks his tongue, then quickly gets to work on maybe-Alexander’s injury.
The magic user’s skin is warm to the touch. It is likely they are running a fever.
David curses under his breath again. He squints into the darkness and continues to work as swiftly as he can, all the while he tries to recall what his mentors had taught him years ago.
It takes him a good minute, but David finally manages to stop red from gashing out of maybe-Alexander’s wound. However, now, the ex-mercenary is quite tired.
This is likely the alcohol in his veins still talking into his left ear, but… David would give anything for a nap.
Outside, the wind has risen, and the trees rustle amongst lands that have yet to see the sun. David wonders if Marcus and Sasha simply went home in order to make love, or if they were playing a prank on him, and are actually searching for him outside right now, since David has not made his official return to the space they’d been using as their campsite.
The ex-mercenary blinks. And, when he opens his eyes again, his head is rested against straw. His nose itches. Maybe-Alexander is seated atop the stone bed, and stares at him from above, with a rather disgusted look plastered across their features.
The magic-user’s brow twitches. They cringe. “Heavens! What are you doing sleeping on my bed?”
David frowns. Did he pass out?
Was he truly that tired? Sure, not sleeping for two nights straight to party with Markus certainly does that to him sometimes, but…
“Hello?” Maybe-Alexander crosses his arms, then taps at his elbow with a single one of his fingers. “Give me one good reason to spare you, peasant.”