For Murtagh, the last few days were riddled with nothing but silence. There were no thoughts to occupy his mind, no state of being to question. It was as though he were asleep, with no dreams to distract him. It was almost peaceful in its silence. No one's thoughts or influence but his own. But there was a small corner of nagging doubt in the back of his mind. Something that kept him from giving in to the silence. Something he kept holding on to, like a lifeline.

What eventually came to rouse him from his unconscious state, he would never know. All he would remember is being immobilized and dragged under the ocean by the Nïdhwal, pinned and unable to breath, getting pulled deeper into the warm waters. Screaming out of desperation. Next, he would be fighting towards consciousness, feeling as though he were swimming in a thick bog, his movements and thoughts inhibited and slow. And when he finally came to, a panic immediately settled over his heart when he realized he had no idea where he was.

Above him was a compacted clay ceiling. He blinked repeatedly and quickly, trying to clear his blurry vision. He forced himself to relax as he reached out for Thorn, scared of what he might find.

Do not fret young one, I am here. And we are safe, for now.

Murtagh breathed, tears pricking his eyes in relief. Thorn where —? But before he could finish his thought, excruciating pain hit him as though it had been dropped on top of his chest. He gasped as the feeling began to return, his body shaking in a cold sweat and yet he felt hot all the same. He knew he shouldn't move yet he began to thrash in an effort to withstand the pain.

His arm flailed wildly, and his fingers gripped something soft, a towel. His muscles jerked and he realized that it was lying under something heavy. A bowl, he would soon find out, when it fell off the small stool it had been sitting on and crashed onto the floor, splattering him with cool water and fragments of hardened clay.

Movement to his right, and he flinched, fearing the worst, as a woman shot up like she had been struck, brandishing a dagger in her right hand. She had been curled up on a bench up against the wall, keeping watch over him apparently. Murtagh eyed the weapon in panic, knowing he was in no condition to defend himself, fearing the worst. He hardly had a moment to wonder who the knife was for. He gasped and she turned to face him, blinking in bewilderment and confusion until understanding grew in her eyes.

"Dammit. You picked a fine time to wake up, rider."

Her voice was lower than he expected, wary and laced with exhaustion. She seemed almost irritated with him. Inconvenienced. But she set down her dagger and got to her feet, quickly running out of the room.

Murtagh thought he was going to be sick or perhaps pass out again. And he knew he had no energy to heal himself. The risk was too great. It would kill him if he tried. The woman returned, a torch in hand that she stuck into a nook in the wall to light the room. She had a small blanket in her hands holding a few items that she set beside him. Then she dropped to her knees, a set look of determination in her eyes as she got to work.

With the room now faintly lit, Murtagh did his best to observe as much of his surroundings as he could. The room they were in was fairly large, a sitting area made to entertain guests based on the decorative pillows shoved against the wall and out of the way, along with a long table that could seat at least eight. There was a bench several feet long, the width of the room, where the woman had been sleeping. He was lying on the floor, on a makeshift cot, but he could still feel the hard earth underneath him. There was a warm breeze coming from the decent-sized windows, but he still shivered as though cold.

He was unsure of what to make of the woman. In the light, he realized she was younger than he had expected. Even with the one sentence there was something about the tone of voice that reminded him of a matron: firm and no-nonsense. But she had to be around his age, maybe only a few years younger. He was surprised by her ebony complexion, smooth and bright with youth. While she had been out of the room, she had pulled back her thick, dark curls into a ponytail that hung down her back. Her brown eyes were wide and gave nothing away except her caution as she returned his stare.

She leaned forward suddenly and placed her forehead to his. He began to recoil but she was sitting back before he could protest. "Your fever has spiked," she sighed, as if commenting casually on the weather instead of his condition. "Unfavorably so."

She removed the wet blanket from his persons and mumbled about having to fetch a dry one. She set it aside for now and for the first time, Murtagh glanced down and realized the only courtesy he had was a thin cloth laid across his lap. But before he could get embarrassed, the mess that was his body explained the state of his undress and pain. There was hardly a stretch of skin on him that was unharmed. Purple and green bruises adorned his chest and the rest was covered in bandages. There was hardly any skin left unwrapped or uninjured. Every breath he took was riddled with pain, his lungs expanding into crushed ribs. One leg looked mottled and twisted, broken and useless. No ordinary man could expect to walk after such an ordeal, let alone live.

The woman must've seen the expression on his face because hers softened a bit. "Unfortunately, there are no magic users here to ease your suffering," she said. "But we will do our best to make you well again until you are strong enough to heal yourself."

Thorn, where are we?

A small village on Illium. The woman tending to you found us and brought you here. But unfortunately, I do not recall much of what happened either.

How long?

Two weeks.

Murtagh spluttered in disbelief, trying to sit up without thinking. But before he could further injure himself, the woman quickly placed her hands on his shoulders and firmly planted him on his back. Not that she needed to. The pain was a crippling reminder that he wasn't going anywhere. She gave him a stern look. "Don't move."

She was, of course, right, but he still bristled with indignation at being told what to do. Not to mention he now had questions that apparently only she could answer. He took a slow, deep breath, staring up at the ceiling and regaining his composure. "Tell me your name," he grunted, trying to put as much base in his voice as possible in an effort to intimidate her.

She didn't look up, the air around them stiff as she seemed to contemplate answering him. "I don't think I will," she said after a long pause. "It's not really relevant here, is it, Murtagh Morzansson?"

The air was thick with tension as he eyed her with profound mistrust and concern. But he gritted his teeth, trying not to let his feelings show. She knew who he was and, in his current physical state, had the upper hand. But he wouldn't let her know it.

"It hardly seems fair that you should know my name but I don't know yours."

"Tough," she said curtly. Any trace of compassion was gone now at his forceful badgering. "All you need to know is that despite my better judgement, I will see to your health for the time being."

"Is that meant to be comforting?"

"Would you prefer I hold your hand and sing you a sweet lullaby?"

He held his tongue and she took his silence as finite for the time being. She worked quietly, only briefly explaining what she was doing to make sure he would cooperate. One of his gashes was becoming infected, although she had apparently been checking his bandages enough that she had, at least, caught it early. She carefully removed the stitches from his chest, her face remaining impassive while she worked.

Thorn, have you been able to glean anything about these people?

Unfortunately, no. They have gone out of their way to keep their distance. But I have not sensed anything unusual or threatening since arriving either. And no magic, just as the woman claims.

It was all they had to go on, and Murtagh trusted Thorn's observations.

"This will sting a bit."

Murtagh swore violently as she poured a warm liquid into his wounds. It burned like an open flame and tears pricked the corner of his eyes, and he swore at her harshly. "You call that a bit?" he snapped.

"You were nearly eaten by a sea serpent and this is what does you in? Don't act like such a fragile kitten." He gritted his teeth, the pain still seeping deeper into the wound, along with his pride.

She quickly followed it with a cooling balm that she applied over the gash and Murtagh's breaths of pain began to ease, his body beginning to relax. She re-stitched his wound closed, Murtagh staring at the far wall beyond her head and thinking of other things to distract himself, digging his fingernails into his palm, barely flinching when he broke the skin.

When she was finished, she went about checking his other injuries, applying the balm to help with the pain and wrapping them in clean bandages. Through it all, her hands were surprisingly gentle, but strong. Certainly not healer's hands — the skin on the pads of her fingers was tough and calloused — but capable nonetheless. But she also didn't seem disturbed by his wounds, nor queasy at the sight of blood.

She washed the skin with a warm rag to get the blood and excess ointments. She looked thoroughly exhausted now, and even Murtagh felt weary with how much time had passed since he first awoke. Then as she washed her own hands in the bowl of warm water, she asked him, "Are you hungry at all? We have some leftover bread and some fruit. It's not much, but considering how long you've been unconscious and your current condition, it's probably for the best anyway."

His stomach answered for him at the thought of food, and the woman gave him a surprised look before nodding. "All right then, I'll be right back."

She placed a cool rag on his forehead and left, taking her supplies with her. Murtagh had no energy to spare and exhaustion returned in full force. He was out before the woman even returned.