The scent of grilled fish wafted through the air, mingling with the damp, earthy scent of the forest. The old man crouched by the campfire, a sharpened stick in his hand, turning the skewered fish over the flames. The skin crackled and popped, juices dripping into the fire, sizzling as they hit the embers.
Allan lay on the plank, bound and immobile. His body still throbbed, each beat of his heart sending waves of pain through his mangled limbs. But the scent of food clawed through the haze of his exhaustion, making his stomach twist with hunger.
The old man glanced down, eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his straw hat. "You must be peckish," he said, sliding the fish off the stick. "You'll need more energy. We're nearly there."
Allan's dry, cracked lips parted. "Where... is 'there'?"
The old man ignored the question, tearing a chunk of fish away and holding it up to Allan's mouth. "Open up."
Allan's throat bobbed. He opened his mouth, and the old man shoved the fish in, a bit too roughly. The hot, flaky meat scalded Allan's tongue, but he swallowed greedily, the rich, smoky flavor exploding against his taste buds.
"Good?" the old man asked, already tearing off another piece.
Allan nodded, his jaw working as he chewed. The food brought warmth to his belly, momentarily distracting him from the stabbing pain in his chest and the throbbing ache of his shattered limbs.
The old man popped a piece of fish into his own mouth and chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the fire. "I'm surprised you didn't pass out with that much over your body," he said, his tone casual, almost conversational.
Allan forced a smile, his face pale and smeared with dirt. "I guess... I've always been a survivor."
The old man snorted. "A survivor, huh?"
"Thanks," Allan said, voice hoarse. "For saving me."
The old man's eyes glinted, reflecting the flickering firelight. "Anyone would do the same."
"Not everyone," Allan muttered, his gaze drifting to the darkened trees. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed, its harsh cry echoing through the forest.
The old man didn't respond. Instead, he stood and dusted off his hands. "Stay put." He turned and wandered off, his thin frame vanishing behind a cluster of bushes.
Allan lay there, staring up at the patchwork sky, fragmented by the canopy of trees above. He tried to move his fingers, but the effort sent fresh stabs of pain through his arms. He bit down on a whimper, his jaw clenched tight.
After what felt like an eternity, the old man returned. In his hand, he held a small, round fruit the size of a peach, its skin a deep, throbbing purple that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light.
The old man crouched down and held it up. "Here. Eat this."
Allan blinked. "What... is that?"
"Mulseonim fruit," the old man said, pushing it toward Allan's mouth. "It'll numb you up. Nullify your sensitivity. Though it's technically a poison."
Allan's eyes widened. "A... poison?"
The old man chuckled, his grin wide and toothy. "Only for a day or two. You'll live."
Allan's gaze darted from the fruit to the old man's face. The old man's expression was impassive, his dark eyes glittering.
"C'mon," the old man said, his tone suddenly stern. "Open up. Or you can just keep screaming every time I pull the plank."
Allan swallowed, his throat dry. He opened his mouth.
The old man shoved the fruit between Allan's teeth, and Allan bit down. The skin burst open, a gush of sickly sweet juice flooding his mouth. It tasted like overripe plums mixed with bitter ash, the aftertaste lingering like smoke on his tongue.
Within seconds, the effects hit.
The pain dissolved, melting away like ice under a hot sun. The ache in his chest vanished. The fire in his shattered limbs dissipated. Allan's whole body felt... weightless. Airy.
And then his ears began to ring. The world around him echoed, as if he were underwater. The trees swayed, their branches warping and bending like serpents. The old man's face swam before him, distorting and stretching like a reflection on a rippling pond.
"How is it?" the old man asked, his voice booming and small at the same time.
Allan laughed, a hysterical, high-pitched sound. "This is... awesome," he slurred, his tongue feeling too thick in his mouth. "But... why's everything moving?"
The old man chuckled, crouching by the fire and smothering it with dirt. "Side effect," he said, patting down the ashes. "You'll be seeing and hearing things funny for a while. Best to sleep it off."
Allan's head lolled to the side, his eyelids fluttering. The trees above twisted into strange, coiling shapes. The sky pulsed like a heartbeat.
The old man grunted as he grabbed the rope and started pulling the plank again. The rough, uneven ground sent jolts through Allan's body, but with the mulseonim numbing his senses, it felt like little more than a distant vibration.
The old man's voice drifted over him, echoing and distorted. "Hold on, kid. It ain't much farther."
Allan's gaze drifted to the canopy above, where the branches twisted and curled like grasping fingers.
Somewhere, far away, a crow cawed again. But to Allan, it sounded like laughter.
---------
Allan's eyes fluttered open. A coarse hand slapped the side of his face, not too hard but enough to jolt him awake.
"Wake up. We're here," the old man's gruff voice said.
Allan's vision wavered, the world still swaying from the lingering effects of the mulseonim fruit. His eyes adjusted, focusing on the scene before him.
A small, rustic cabin stood in the middle of a forest clearing. The wooden walls were patched with mismatched planks, the roof sagging slightly under the weight of damp leaves. Outside, lines of dried fish hung on thin ropes, swaying gently in the breeze like wind chimes.
A small hearth sat outside, stones arranged in a circle with a blackened iron pot resting above charred wood. Smoke curled lazily from the embers, mixing with the scent of fish and wet earth.
Allan's body still felt weightless, but his limbs were dead weight. Numb. Unmoving. The old man crouched beside him, untying the rope that secured Allan to the plank. The rough fibers scraped against his skin, but the pain was a distant, muted echo.
The old man grunted, slipping his hands beneath Allan's shoulders. With a surprising amount of strength, he hoisted Allan up, carrying him bridal style. For a man his age, his muscles were wiry and solid, and he moved without hesitation, as if he'd been carrying dead weight his whole life.
Inside the cabin, the air was cool and musty, tinged with the scent of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. The interior was cramped — a single room with a wooden chest pushed against one wall, a table with mismatched chairs, and a bed covered with a leather blanket.
The old man laid Allan down on the bed, adjusting his twisted limbs with rough, practical movements. Allan's broken feet hung off the edge, his toes swollen and purple. But the pain was distant, smothered beneath the mulseonim's numbing haze.
Allan's gaze drifted around the cabin, taking in the cracks in the wooden walls, the bundles of herbs dangling like talismans, the half-open window with a faded curtain fluttering in the breeze.
"Is this your house?" Allan asked, voice slurred, his head lolling to the side.
The old man moved to the wooden chest, flipping it open and rummaging through its contents. "Technically, it's mine now," he said, tossing aside a bundle of cloth and pulling out a roll of bandages and two sturdy sticks. "Found it abandoned. I was lucky. Did some repairs, patched up the roof. Been here about... five years, give or take."
Allan's head lolled back against the pillow, the ceiling above him a blur. "Feels cozy," he mumbled, eyelids heavy. "And peaceful."
"Mm," the old man grunted, moving back to the bed. He crouched down by Allan's feet, positioning the sticks against his twisted ankle. "Hold still."
Allan blinked. "Not like I can move anyway."
The old man chuckled, a low, gravelly sound. "True enough."
With quick, efficient movements, the old man wrapped the bandages around Allan's foot, securing it to the sticks in a makeshift splint. Allan watched, eyes half-lidded, as the old man worked. His hands were rough and calloused, his fingers deft and steady.
"this is worse now that I look at you up close" the old man muttered, tugging the last knot tight. He sat back, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "There. That'll hold for now."
Allan swallowed, his throat dry. "Thank you," he said, his voice soft. "For... everything."
The old man leaned back, resting his elbows on his knees. His dark eyes met Allan's, unreadable and calm. "Don't thank me yet," he said. "You're still in pieces."
Allan's gaze drifted to the ceiling, the herbs hanging there swaying slightly with the breeze. "Better than being dead," he muttered, a weak smile tugging at his cracked lips.
The old man said nothing, his eyes still fixed on Allan. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet and moved toward the chest, his boots thudding against the wooden floor.
"Get some rest," he said, tossing a thin, patched-up blanket over Allan's chest. "Tomorrow, we talk."
Allan's eyes slipped shut, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like a lead blanket.
But before sleep claimed him, he heard the old man mutter, just under his breath:
"Hell of a story you got there, boy. Though, I'm looking forward for the rest of it..."