Author's note: English is unfortunately not my first language - I apologise for any mistakes, grammatical, OOC-related or otherwise ouo. I have done my best to be at least somewhat historically accurate, but don't expect too much. Set somewhere vaguely during the 1700th-1800th century in the days before anaesthetic.

Chapter 1

Berwald felt like the world was against him, or at least like it didn't care for him in the slightest. He looked disapprovingly at the landscape around him as if his dirty boots were the fault of the ground, or his ruffled clothes the fault of some sentient wind that bothered only him. He disliked the country already. He had been traveling through it for little more than two weeks, but he already missed the mountains and hills of his home. Those found here were only shadows of his homeland's, as were the forest and the animals. No great owls screeched during the night; there was only the smallest of the species peeking through the holes of ruined walls, some of them no more than small balls of down and feather left alone in the nest.

Berwald sighed as he remembered Sweden, but he also knew that it was too late to turn around now. He continued down the road, tightening his grip on the black suitcase he held in his right hand. It contained most of the tools of his trade, with the rest located in the pockets of his long, navy-blue coat.
He saw the first signs of what passed for civilisation around these countryside parts of Denmark - the fences and stones that marked the edges of fields alongside fresh tracks from horses and cattle. Soon the straw rooftops appeared. As he came closer, he could see the shapes of people moving under the shade of the oak that stood in the square. A circle of stone surrounded the tree's trunk, and Berwald knew that the men of age in the village would gather there to hold ting and discuss whatever subjects that needed to be discussed. Probably just farming, Berwald thought. He understood the charm one could find in the rhythm of season and the work of one's hands, but it seemed a bit too boring to do for a living.

Then, he saw a woman standing still. She was waiting, he realized, for him. He hurried towards her, and as soon as he was within hearing range, she asked him, "Are you the doctor?"

Berwald nodded quickly and made a gesture to shake her hand, but she was already walking away from him and towards one of the nearby houses. Berwald judged that it was the smallest or second smallest of the seven or eight he saw in the village. It was the house of a farmer, built as one long square and divided into two parts: one for the humans and one for the animals. Berwald followed the woman. As soon as he ducked under the low doorway, he felt the heat that filled the small room. The fire was roaring even though it was late August, and together with the smell of sickness and blood, it made the room thoroughly unpleasant.

Berwald was led to a bed where he could see a vague shape, covered by layers upon layers of cloth and furs. An old man with greying hair sat beside it. He didn't seem to notice the doctor's arrival, so Berwald raised his voice.

"May I see th' patient?"

The man said nothing, but stood up and walked slowly towards his wife. There was a quick conversation in a danish dialect that Berwald couldn't understand well enough to catch more than a few words. Instead, he concentrated on the bed in front of him as he began removing the layers, starting with the coarse cloth that was pulled up so it almost covered the head, as if the person was dead already. It revealed a male face, one that Berwald would have called beautiful under other circumstances. As it was now, the young man in front of him was clearly malnourished and running a fever – his hair was messy and damp from sweat while his lips were cracked and dry, his mouth slightly open.

"What... were you trying t' do?" Berwald asked the woman, whom he presumed was the mother. She answered shakily and slowly once she heard the accent in his voice.

"Sweat out the sickness," she said, "Burning herbs."

Berwald laid a hand on the patients forehead. There was certainly sweat, but the strained breathing and weak pulse made it clear that it was all but healthy.

"Stop th' fire," he said. He saw how the mother began the task out of the corner of his eye.

"You there," he continued, speaking to the father, "what's th' problem with 'im?"

The man only stammered. "L-leg," he finally said.

Soon Berwald was staring at the source of at least one of the problems – there, on the man's left leg near the shin was a large wound. It was clearly deep and had bled much, but that what not what worried the doctor the most. The wound has become infected to the point that it was now red and inflamed, with long stripes of reddish-purple spreading through the veins up and down the leg.

Berwald looked away from the body for a brief moment as he gathered what he needed from his suitcase. The wound would have to be throughly cleaned, he thought, and he would need to make an incision through some of the most inflamed areas to do so. Without turning around, he once again raised his voice; "Do you 'ave any Garlic? Thyme?"

He heard them talk quickly again, then the door opened and closed. He cleansed his scalpel with a compound form his baggage and began working. The young man was too far gone in fever delusions to even notice what was happening, which felt like a blessing considering how Berwald's other patiens had often had trouble bearing with the pain. As soon as he was given a bundle of herbs that the woman had found in the village, he crushed them to a paste that could be applied to the wound after it was cleansed with water. The mother was prepared to use water straight from the village well, but Berwald inisted that it had to be boiled first. While they waited for the water to heat up, Berwald thought he saw the man's eyes flicker open, but even if it was true, it didn't last more than a short moment.

"What's his name?" he asked.

"Mathias," the mother answered. "Our Mathias. My dear son..."

When Berwald rose from his seat a little more than an hour later, his arms and back were sore. He hurried outside and took in deep breaths of fresh air. He had done all he could do for Mathias for the time being. Tomorrow he'd have to change the cloth on the wound and hopefully inspect the rest of the body. He didn't dare continuing today - just as much for the patient's sake as for his own.

Berwald dried of his palms on his coat and decided to find someone to discuss lodging with. He wanted nothing more than to sleep; both the travel and the treatment had tired him. A small group of people had gathered in the square. Some of them could have been peeking into the house. Berwald approached them slowly, and a few backed away, one of them pointing to his sleeves. Only then did he remember that he probably looked like hell, covered in mud and dust and with bloodstains at his wrists. He remained expressionless, which only seemed to further frighten the villagers. Then one, a young woman, stepped forward. She had long, gold-coloured hair and a simple dress - a variety of herbs hung from her belt.

"Hello," she said, "I'm Karen. I take it you're finished in there?"

Berwald nodded briefly. Karen refused to be as intimidated by his glare as the rest and smiled happily as she continued, "We have an empty house a little walk away. News arrived that you'd be coming, so we've let it stand vacant for you. Shall I show you the way?"

"That'd be nice."

And with that, they began walking at a slow pace that Berwald appreciated. He had time to truly look at the village beyond the hasty glances from when he arrived. The houses were not in disrepair and the people looked well-fed. They passed the largest house, which Berwald supposed had to belong to the land-owner. Many of the other villagers would be his serfs, working his land in exchange for protection and a farm to live on.

"That's Ulrik's house," Karen explained, pausing briefly. "He's got glass from Germany in the windows. He's a big man." She exhaled sharply though almost inaudibly, and continued.

They arrived at the vacant house after a few minuets. The village had been unexpectedly small. This doorway here was also too low for Berwald's height. He ducked inside and found that there were two rooms. Both were dusty and cold, but those were things that could be remedied. Karen left him alone for a few minutes, but returned soon after with firewood.
During that time, Berwald didn't move, and his eyes remained fixated on the wall. (The stones were damaged there.) He was hit by something very sudden and powerful, like a punch to his gut, a strange feeling that could have been provoked by homesickness or tiredness. He imagined himself living in that space, day after day after week after month. He didn't know if he'd ever fit in. (The wall leant slightly inwards.) Perhaps, he thought, he'd only be passing through. He could be gone again in a few months. He could stay only for the winter and leave next spring. Maybe he'd go back to Sweden – to Stockholm – but then reality set in and he felt like he had a solid stone for a stomach.

It was a welcome relief to be able to help Karen with the fire instead of worrying. She excused herself shortly after, but Berwald knew that he had plenty to occupy himself with. He had cleaning to do, cooking, he had to deal with the remains of the garden behind the house – and then there was the young man.

Mathias.

Berwald would deal with that tomorrow. He'd deal with everything tomorrow, except for finally cooking a warm meal and sleeping in a proper bed, even one that was creaky and certainly infested with lice. He could deal with everything tomorrow.