Ballad Of The Forgotten: Chapter 2: Part 1:

When he woke up, the world seemed like a haze of colours and sounds that approached him from afar, like a bull-drawn cart carrying wet wool. At first, he was a little curious, because he’d never seen the light move with that fluidity before. The sounds felt like a mist, surrounding his head, soft and comfortable like an amorphous pillow.

The only thing that nagged at him was a sensation of a line on his throat. But then he felt it go lower, so he could feel it under his throat. But then he felt that line grow bigger and slide down to his chest. There it stayed and multiplied into more lines, which crisscrossed into a haphazard mess and sprawled all over his abdomen. And then the world hit him with the force of a sledgehammer.

He was in a barn. It was empty where he lay, but he could hear cows mooing and sheep bleating somewhere nearby. He could smell the dung and dust sweat on their animal skins. He felt like he would throw up.

The wounds on his torso were not deep, but they cut into his feeble conscious, making him faint and lightheaded. He felt a new sensation burning into his senses. Ah, that one! There was a stab wound on his thigh, and it was the reason he was bleeding to death in the first place.

Shouldn’t he be dead? He could barely open his eyes from the weakness. The knife had been driven deep into his leg, bruising the bone. He hadn’t pulled out the weapon, but he could almost remember the agony of bearing it and trying to escape death. The wound felt like it was cauterized. Perhaps he was given something for the pain, but whatever it was, has worn away, and he felt the weight of what his body had endured. His throat burned from thirst. The air above his head seemed like a swirl of light and dust particles and he looked at it blankly, trying to call out for help.

A bucket fell near him. The noise was so loud and acute that he might have jumped if he had the strength. He tried to look around to see who it was and was met with a withered green curtain hanging near his head.

Suddenly his face was met with water droplets. The curtain had changed colours from that sickly green to rich, overwhelming black. Hair. Deep black thick hair. The light fell on some of the strands, making them seem gold.

A pair of eyes stared into the half-closed crescents of his own. Even in his delirious state, he was instantly blown by the deep black of those eyes. It was her. So he had lived after all.

She placed a hand on his forehead and the coolness of her hand calmed him, pushing the pain away for an instant. He could hear her rummaging through things. She found what she was looking for and he heard her pour something. She held his chin and put something near his lips.

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Whatever it was, was wet and he eagerly swallowed it. And cringed till he could feel tears form in his eyes.

Must have been medicine. He was still cringing when he felt the pain flicker away bit by bit almost instantly. For the first time, he felt a little clearheaded. She held his head, pulled out the pillow, and put a fresh one in. He heard her move objects, searching for something again.

This time, she put another cool surface against his lips and he recoiled. But she was persistent, and he sighed mentally as he drank. But it was water and it entered his body with a sweetness he was not prepared for. He felt a little trickle down his cheek in his impatience. She held his head and made him drink until he was exhausted.

She put her arm under him and held him up as soon as he was done. Damn, she was strong, for she didn’t break a sweat carrying his weight. But then, he mused, it was not as much as her strength as it was tactics, for she was holding specific places to hoist him up.

His injured muscle spasmed and relaxed with the new movements. Now that he was somewhat conscious, the pain didn’t overwhelm him as much, although he still cringed with every movement. He was instead distracted by her. She had just bathed and the water clung to her skin, giving off a warm earthy smell. It only made him aware of the stench of sweat and blood on him.

She had placed more pillows behind him, helping him into a sitting position. He noticed that she had a bucket of water and some rags with her. Dipping one into the bucket, she wrung it and wiped his face.

The coolness soaked into his skin, parched and shivering to the healing roughness of the cloth. He closed his eyes, feeling goosebumps wherever her hand went, cleaning him and bringing him to life. Occasionally he’d open his eyes to see the water dark and dirty with his blood and she’d go fetch another pail to continue.

Given his fascination with her, he’d have been extremely conscious of his near nakedness, but as he was just waking to life, painfully and slowly, he couldn’t care enough. But she was kind and patient, and respectful and he was not even ashamed of being so vulnerable to a complete stranger. He stopped her at one point to tell her that he’d take care of his own business, so she left to give him privacy.

He could just sit up enough to clean himself, trying his best to do a thorough job. As soon as it was done, he fell back, tired with the movement, barely covering himself, and called for her. She came back, carrying a farmer’s clothes. He clung to her as she clothed him. The clothes, sundried and well-worn, made him feel like he was covered with sunlight, making him sleepy again.

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