Oliver woke with a groan, the splitting pain in his head pounding like a war drum. He massaged his temple, each touch sending ripples of ache through his body. He tried to sit up—just a little—but a wise-worn voice stopped him.
"Stay down, boy. You're going to open those wounds and waste all my efforts if you move."
His eyes opened wide. He realized he was lying on a bed, and every inch of his body was wrapped in bandages. Dull aches draped all over him like a heavy cloak.
His right arm and left leg felt especially painful, every nerve screaming in protest. He looked up at the man seated in the chair before the bed, eyeing him warily. The old man had a seat-worn face and grey hair; Oliver didn't speak at first.
"Not going to thank me for saving your life, are you, boy? How ungrateful. Tch. I should've left you to die in the woods."
The memories slammed in: the forest. The beast. The blur of falling. The crash. The near-death. What had happened?
Had he really been injured so badly? His memory felt fragmented.
'So this old man saved me,' he realized.
Though wary, Oliver noted the man had had every chance to kill him—and he hadn't. That alone meant something.
He managed a subtle incline of his head. "Thank you… for helping me."
"Help you?!" the man snorted. "You mean saving my life. You'd have been cat food—no, cat poop—by now if it weren't for me."
Oliver frowned.
Cat poop?
That was a... Unique way to describe the situation. It seemed the old man was eccentric, to say the least.
'I guess that's what you would expect from some hermit living in the middle of nowhere.'
"You're thinking something rude, aren't you?" the old man asked with a crooked grin."What I mean by 'cat poop' is this: enough time's passed that that black cat could've digested you and pooped you out its behind ages ago. It's been three weeks since I brought you to my humble abode."
Three weeks. Oliver's eyes widened. "Is that so?"
"Yeah. You were badly injured, it took serious effort to patch you up. I expect you to repay me in a couple of ways once you're up and about, which shouldn't be long. I have high-grade healing elixirs, but your body couldn't keep them down while you were unconscious."
Oliver let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. Relief began to creep in. He had worried he might lie like this for much longer.
As a mortal, the amount of time he would need to heal naturally from such grievous wounds was astronomical.
A high-grade elixir would heal him quickly, in a matter of seconds—scars might remain, but at least he could hope the worst was behind him.
The old man continued: "Now, you must be hungry. Let me grab an elixir from my storeroom; we'll heal you up so you can eat."
Oliver nodded. The old man rose slowly, leaning on his staff-sword as he walked out.
Alone, Oliver took in the room. Wooden walls. A small cabin, roughly five square metres. Plain but tidy. On the left: a cupboard. Beside it: a desk with parchments, a quill dipped in ink, and a small window overhead.
On the right: a larger window open to the breeze, curtains drifting gently. Behind his bed: shelves stacked with books. Generally, a modest but respectful space.
The door swung open and the old man returned. He carried the staff in one hand, a vial of green translucent liquid in the other. He stopped by the bedside and spoke: "Here—drink."
He held the vial to Oliver's lips. Oliver parted his lips, letting the liquid seep into his mouth. He swallowed slowly. A warm, fuzzy sensation spread from his chest outwards, and the effect was immediate.
"Mmmmm...."
He groaned in pain as the shattered and displaced bones in his legs, arms, and ribs snapped back into place. It took about a minute before he began feeling refreshed. His body lifted slowly from the bed, clad only in bandages from neck to feet.
"Thank you… for the healing elixir," Oliver said, eyes on the old man.
"Bah. No need to thank me for every little thing," the man waved dismissively, though a small smile flickered at his lips.
Oliver shifted to the side of the bed, his feet dangling off the bed, then stood carefully. The elixir had worked incredibly well—his injuries were healed, leaving only fatigue and a distant, dull ache.
Considering the severity, the result was impressive. He didn't move to remove the bandages yet—he was prepared for gruesome scars.
But another thought hit him: Wait… I don't have any clothes.
He glanced around. The old man spoke: "Your clothes were torn and soaked in blood, so I discarded them. I did make some spare ones from the materials I had." He pointed to a hanger behind the bed where a plain black shirt and pants hung, Oliver's size.
Oliver didn't bother thanking him again—he'd been told not to. "Not going to thank me for making clothes too, boy? Tch, how ungrateful," the old man teased.
Oliver's eyebrow twitched in exhaustion and annoyance.
This old man is eccentric! he thought.
"You're thinking something rude again, boy?" the man asked.
"Nothing that isn't true," Oliver replied.
"Tch. How disrespectful," the old man grumbled. "Have your parents never taught you to respect your elders?"
"In fact, they haven't," Oliver nodded dramatically, wearing a pondering expression.
The old man nodded, then stood. "No matter. I will go prepare your food while you change into your clothes." He walked out, closing the door behind him.
Oliver slowly began peeling away the bandages. Beneath them, the sight that greeted him was very unpleasant.
His left shoulder bore gruesome scars where the skin had folded and crumpled in on itself to close the wound. His right arm was lined with deep tear scars, and his left leg showed the clear marks of teeth bites and rips. It was a grim sight.
He sighed.
This looks terrible, he thought, staring at his mangled reflection in the small window's faint gleam.