Allan drifted in and out of restless sleep, his mind hovering somewhere between consciousness and the fog of pain. The air inside the cabin was cool and damp, the scent of dried herbs clinging to the wooden walls.
A rhythmic, grinding sound punctuated the silence — stone against stone, slow and deliberate. Allan blinked, his vision swimming until it settled on the old man crouched by the hearth.
The old man leaned over a mortar and pestle, his gnarled hands working in steady, methodical circles. Inside the stone bowl, crushed leaves and stems formed a thick, green paste. Beside him lay a strip of cloth, a set of wooden splints, and a cup filled halfway with a murky, yellowish liquid.
Allan's eyes narrowed. "What are you... doing?"
The old man didn't look up. "Making sure you don't fall apart before you heal," he said, voice gruff. "Now, hush."
Allan swallowed. The mulseonim fruit's effects were wearing off. His body ached with a dull, throbbing pain that ebbed and pulsed with every heartbeat. His legs lay at odd angles, one foot still splinted, the other wrapped in a makeshift bandage.
The old man set the mortar aside and dipped his fingers into the green paste. He moved to Allan's side, holding a strip of cloth between his teeth. With surprising gentleness, he smeared the paste over the bruises and lacerations along Allan's arms and legs. It was cold, the texture grainy and slick, and it stung like antiseptic.
Allan winced, a hiss escaping through his teeth. "What is that stuff?"
"Ramset root, muckthorn leaves, and a dash of ivore sap," the old man said, his voice flat and casual. "Anti-inflammatory. Reduces swelling. Keeps infection at bay."
"So... it's like a... medieval painkiller?"
"Sure," the old man said, not bothering to clarify as he continued smearing the paste. "Now, hold still."
The old man set down the bowl and grabbed the wooden splints. Carefully, he positioned them along Allan's shattered limbs and began wrapping them with the cloth strips, his hands moving quickly and efficiently. Each tug and pull sent fresh waves of pain through Allan's body, but he bit down, jaw clenched, refusing to cry out.
When he was done, the old man sat back, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "There," he muttered. "That should hold."
Allan's gaze drifted toward the door. Outside, the forest loomed, dense and shadowy, the trees whispering as the wind rustled through their branches. The scent of earth and damp leaves seeped through the cracks in the cabin walls.
The old man rose to his feet with a grunt, grabbing a small knife and a leather pouch from a shelf. "Stay put," he said, shoving the door open with his foot. "Gotta get more herbs."
Before Allan could respond, the door swung shut with a heavy thud.
Allan drifted again, the ceiling above him blurring in and out of focus. When he blinked again, the old man was back.
A bundle of fresh herbs hung from his belt, their leaves a vibrant, pulsing green. He knelt by the hearth, tossing a handful of them into the mortar and grinding them down to a fine pulp. The room filled with a sharp, tangy scent that stung Allan's nose.
The old man scraped the paste into the cup of yellowish liquid, mixing it thoroughly. The concoction swirled into a thick, viscous sludge, the color a sickly, almost glowing green.
Allan wrinkled his nose. "What... the hell is that?"
The old man grabbed the cup and shuffled over, crouching beside Allan. "Salvism sap, pulped ivore leaves, and crushed ragak root," he said, his eyes fixed on the cup. "It'll help your body regenerate. Not as strong as a healing potion, but close enough."
Allan's brow furrowed. "Healing... potions?"
The old man's mouth quirked into a faint smirk. "You heard me. Thought I was bullshitting, huh?"
Allan swallowed, his throat parched. The idea of healing potions was ridiculous. Magic potions? In a backwater cabin like this? But then again, he'd survived a fall that should've killed him. Maybe ridiculous wasn't so far-fetched anymore.
The old man thrust the cup toward him. "Drink."
Allan eyed the liquid warily. It smelled like wet grass mixed with vinegar. "What's it taste like?"
The old man's grin widened. "You'll find out."
Allan sighed, his arm shaking as he reached for the cup. The old man steadied his hand, guiding it to his lips. Allan swallowed.
The taste hit him like a punch in the face — bitter, acrid, with a lingering aftertaste of rotting leaves and burnt coffee grounds. He coughed, nearly spitting it out, but the old man forced the cup higher, making sure every drop went down.
The effect was immediate. Warmth spread through Allan's chest, then his limbs, seeping into his bones. The world around him pulsed, the walls of the cabin seeming to breathe in and out. His eyelids grew heavy, his limbs sinking into the bed as if weighed down by lead.
"What... what the hell...?"
"Relax," the old man said, standing. "The salvism sap shuts you down for a bit. Lets your body focus on healing. You'll be out for a while."
Allan's vision blurred, the old man's face fading into the dark. The last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him was the old man's voice, soft and distant:
"Seven days, kid. You'll be on your feet in seven days."
And then the world went black.
----------------
Allan's eyes fluttered open. Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the cabin walls, casting thin, golden slivers across his face. He blinked, groggy and disoriented, his mind struggling to catch up.
Did he really sleep for seven days?
The world felt heavy, like he was waking up from the deepest sleep of his life. He swallowed, and his dry throat clicked painfully. His body felt... whole. No searing pain, no unbearable throbbing. Just a dull ache, a shadow of the agony he remembered.
Allan inhaled, then exhaled. Slowly, he willed his toes to move.
They did. A small, trembling wiggle.
A laugh bubbled up from his throat, raw and disbelieving. Tears pricked at his eyes, blurring his vision. He lifted his arms, flexing his fingers. They obeyed. He clenched his fists, releasing them. Muscles ached but responded.
"I can move," he whispered, voice cracking. "I can actually move."
He swallowed down the lump in his throat, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and tried to sit up. His arms shook beneath his weight, but he managed to push himself upright. His legs dangled off the edge of the bed, feet grazing the wooden floor.
"Alright," he muttered, taking a deep breath. "One step at a time."
He pressed his palms against the bedframe and pushed himself to his feet. The first step was shaky. His knees wobbled, and he bit back a grunt as a sharp, residual pain flared in his left leg. He took another step. Then another.
By the fourth step, he was panting, sweat beading on his brow. The ache was more persistent now, like his bones were protesting the sudden movement. But he didn't care. He was walking.
Step by step, he made his way to the door that separated the tiny bedroom from the rest of the cabin. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, catching his breath. The room beyond was empty, the hearth cold and dark.
The old man was gone.
Allan scanned the small, cluttered space. Herbs hung in bundles from the ceiling, their leaves dry and crumbling. Strips of leather and torn cloth lay piled in a corner. The table was cluttered with cups, bowls, and the mortar and pestle he vaguely remembered from his drugged-out haze.
On the table, a single parchment lay unfurled. Allan stumbled toward it, grasping the back of a chair for balance. The parchment was covered in spidery, slanted writing — the ink dark and jagged like claw marks.
He squinted. The letters were unfamiliar, looping and angular, like nothing he'd ever seen. Not English. Not any language he knew.
"What the hell...?" he muttered, running a hand through his unkempt hair.
A breeze rustled through the open window, carrying the scent of fresh earth and damp leaves. Allan dropped the parchment and moved to the door, pushing it open.
Outside, the forest stretched endlessly, towering trees swaying gently under the afternoon sun. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance, their songs echoing through the woods. Shafts of light pierced through the canopy, illuminating patches of moss and wildflowers.
Allan stepped onto the porch, his bare feet sinking into the cool, damp earth. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep — the scent of pine, the distant trickle of a stream, the rich, earthy musk of the forest floor.
For a moment, he just stood there, feeling the wind on his face, the ground beneath his feet, the life in his veins.
"I'm alive," he whispered, a grin spreading across his face. "I'm actually alive."
But as the wind blew, he felt a chill crawl up his spine. Where was the old man? And what was that parchment supposed to mean?
Allan's eyes scanned the trees, half expecting the old man to materialize from the shadows, fishing pole slung over his shoulder, that crooked grin on his face.
But the forest was empty.
And Allan was alone.
The cabin creaked under the weight of the wind, the wooden beams groaning as if to remind Allan that he was alone. The old man was nowhere to be seen — no clinking of fishing tackle, no muttered curses at tangled lines. Just the hum of the forest outside and the steady ache in Allan's bones.
Allan leaned against the doorframe, staring out at the trees swaying under the soft, dappled light. The air was cool and smelled of wet leaves and moss. His legs trembled, muscles quivering from the effort of standing. Seven days ago, he was a broken ragdoll, barely able to lift a finger. Now he was upright. Unsteady, but upright.
The old man was out there somewhere. Fishing, maybe. Or hunting. Or just wandering off to wherever old men with mysterious herbs and strange potions went.
Allan exhaled sharply and rubbed the back of his neck. The memory came to him suddenly — his mother, hands on her hips, eyes blazing as she loomed over him in the tiny kitchen of their old apartment.
"Allan! How many times do I have to tell you?" she snapped, yanking a broom from the corner and thrusting it into his hands. "If you're not going to do your chores, then what good are you? You think kindness is a one-way street? You can't expect to be helped and not help back."
He remembered standing there, sullen, scuffing the linoleum floor with the toe of his sneaker, muttering under his breath.
"If you were in anyone else's house, they'd kick you out, lazy boy," she said, wagging a finger at him. "I don't care how sick you are. Kindness goes both ways, Allan."
Now, the memory stung more than the bruises did. He owed that old man his life. Without him, he'd be a rotting corpse at the bottom of that ravine, birds picking at his bones.
Allan glanced around the cabin, his eyes settling on the cluttered table — herbs hanging in bunches, strips of leather, that unreadable parchment. The old man had patched him up, fed him, carried him through the woods. And what had Allan done in return? Nothing.
He grit his teeth and pushed away from the doorframe. His legs screamed in protest, his muscles spasming. He bit back a grunt and straightened his spine.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "You can do this."
One step. The wooden floor creaked beneath him.
Another step. Pain shot up his thigh, but he clenched his jaw and took another.
The room swayed, and his vision blurred at the edges. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
One more step. The table was just a few paces away now. The air inside the cabin felt heavier, each breath pressing down on his chest. His legs trembled as he inched closer to the table, fingers outstretched, desperate to keep his balance.
Finally, his fingertips brushed the wooden surface. He grabbed the edge and leaned heavily against it, his head drooping forward, breath heaving.
"Not so bad," he rasped, a shaky grin pulling at his lips. "Not... so bad."
Allan straightened and looked around the cabin. What could he do? The dried fish hanging by the hearth were still untouched. There were herbs everywhere — some he recognized from the old man's mixtures, others he didn't. The floor was littered with scraps of cloth, wooden splints, and empty bowls.
There was work to be done. And he'd do it. If he couldn't pay the old man back in gold, he'd pay him back in labor.
But first, he needed to stand up straight without falling flat on his ass.
"All right," Allan muttered under his breath, bracing himself for another step. "Let's see what I can do before you get back."
And step by shaky step, he started.