Author's note: I hecked some facts & spellings up, but it's all fixed now.

Tomorrow came, bright and harsh and in the shape of sunlight piercing through Berwalds eyelids, creating glowing patterns until he opened his eyes. He knew he had dreamt something, but couldn't remember anything.

As soon as he was ready, he took his suitcase and headed straight for the house where he knew he was needed. The air was cool but humid. The sun was still low in the sky, barely visible through the shroud of clouds. The farmers had already been awake for several hours. There was plenty of activity in the square - the smith's forge was glowing bright red and a brunet man walked by Berwald with the remains of animals that had walked into traps during the night.

Berwald found the house empty except for Mathias.

He closed the door behind him. Now the room was lit only by the embers and the ray of sunlight that shone through a very small window. He relit the fire and then turned towards the bed, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

Mathias didn't look any different. But when Berwald laid his hand on the man's forehead, he felt a significant decrease in temperature. He then shifted his attention to the wound, cleaning and re-dressing it. Here, too, there was change – the inflammation was no less widespread, but there was no pus, nor any bleeding.

Bewald carefully removed the rest of the cloth that covered his patient's body. A weak groan escaped Mathias when his leg was moved, but otherwise he was silent and most likely unconscious. Berwald wasn't intimidated by a naked body – he'd seen more than most during his studies, both alive and dead – but he was surprised by what he saw.

Mathias' body was covered in scars, some long and white from age, others still red and fresh. Bruises stretched over his arms and chest in all shades of blue, green and purple. Berwald wondered how exactly the young man had acquired all those marks – certainly not as a farmer. For a while, he stared at Mathias' tanned skin, at the white lines that crossed each other as if in an intricate pattern (a starmap, perhaps, Berwald thought). The embers cast an orange light on the protruding ribs and soft shadows in between them, a warm glow on Berwald's hand as he leant forward. The smell of wood and smoke in the air mixed with the faint scent of salves as he treated the sores and wounds, his hands moving steadily from routine and experience. Berwald enjoyed this part of his work the most. He enjoyed fixing and mending and concentrating exclusively on his work, shutting out the rest of the world. His actions spoke for him - not that he had anything against speaking, of course (he sent a fond thought to the debates he had attended at his former school) but there was something very peaceful about a routine job. Mathias' never moved, but Berwald felt his long, deep breaths and calm pulse and had no doubts that things were looking up.

Once he finished, he realized how his eyes had wandered during the treatment – how he had stared at Mathias' collar bones, the muscles of his arms, his mouth... Berwald tried to ignore the thoughts, but was painfully aware that he had been seconds away from reaching out and touching Mathias when the door opened and the mother entered the house. Bewald straightened his back and bowed his head once to greet her.

She didn't react. In fact, she acted as if he wasn't there, a strange departure from her earlier behavior. She began cooking by the open fire. Berwald could hear metal clanking and water boiling, and he watched her back as she bent forwards, crouched by the pot. There was no grey in her hair yet. He wondered when she had had her son. She rolled up her sleeves.

"He will recover, won't he?" she asked.

"I think so."

There was a pause. The mood in the house became distinctly heavy and Berwald hear her take a sharp breath.

"How old 's he?" Bewald asked.

She didn't turn towards him when she answered.

"Just turned twenty winters."

"Hmm. Did he get in' fights a lot?"

"...I'd rather not talk about how he got those wounds you've discovered. Just make sure he gets better. That he gets somewhat robust." She stirred the embers for a moment. "I've got a feeling like he'll need it."

Berwald accepted that it would be useless to force conversation any further. Truth be told, he was happier when he could be silent. Once again, he glanced at the cuts and scars covering Mathias. Why wouldn't she say how he had gotten so injured?

With no answers to find in the hut, Berwald covered Mathias up again and left.

The dust was dancing on the gravel roads as men and women returned from the fields. The dog at the smithy barked and growled and received only laughter in return from the children. At midday, the sound of idle chatter mixed with the smell of food and thin ale as all retreated into their homes to share this most important meal of the day. Berwald sat alone, quite content, in front of the house that he had slept in - a house that had become his own so recently that he had trouble calling it a home, or even his.
He had helped a boy take care of his skinned elbow on the way, and the child had abandoned his distrust and smiled. Before Berwald could ask about Mathias, though the boy was gone. It was becoming somewhat of a frustrating issue for Berwald: no adults in the village had done more than sneer, sigh or glare upon the mention of Mathias.

(Berwald had wanted to slap himself when he left that house. Now wasn't the time, nor the place, for those emotions that seemed to bring but trouble. But no matter how many times he told himself to stop thinking of that man who would most likely be chasing skirts and getting drunk as soon as he was healthy, the image of his scarred body wouldn't leave Berwald's mind. He realized later that he had probably been looking very intimidating on his walk back, hiding his feelings with some stern expression...)

When he saw Karen walk towards him, he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps she would be more inclined to give him answers.
She walked slowly like she had no plan or specific purpose in mind. Her head turned from side to side as wide eyes scoured her surroundings for... something. Just as she was about to walk past Berwald, he stood up to draw her attention. She stopped for a moment, nodded, and then continued walking.

"What 's the matter?" Berwald asked. At first it seemed like she had not heard him at all.

"Nothing, I'm just looking for some herbs. A little something to spice up the drink we're brewing."

"I can help," he said, slowly.

Karen waved for him to come along, and the two of them walked along a path that cut through fields of tall grasses and wildflowers. She described the plants that she was looking for, and Berwald crouched down to search for them. He felt the pin-pricks of a thistle on his fingers and paused to pick away the thorns. He watched the drops of blood drip away and disappear into the soil.

"Are you injured?" There was laughter in Karen's voice.

"'s nothing," Berwald said. Slowly, he continued: "Speaking 'f being injured though, whats th' thing with-"

Karen sighed audibly and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Mathias," she said.

Berwald nodded.

"I guess someone should have filled you in. It's all history now - stuff that happened seasons before you came. Would you stop glaring so... intensely at me, please?"

"S'rry. 'e was a brawler 'f sorts, wasn't 'e? Had an awful lot 'f muscle and scars."

"Far from it," Karen answered. "He was strong... but, uh, a friendly drunk. Well-liked. Used to wear this little cross around his neck. He was away for a year or so, fighting wars for kings and princes in the south with a band of mercenaries. There were rumors of wealth and looting and since Mathias' family isn't well-off by any means, the rest of us chipped in to get him a proper axe, means for the journey - you know, all those things a poor man like him needed..." She sighed again. Berwald saw the muscles of her jaw tense. "And then we find him, weeks after we expect him back, bleeding and barely conscious, lying in the wayside. No money. Nothing at all. He must have squandered what he had, lost too many fights..." She looked straight at Berwald for the first time since she began speaking. "Nobody knows what happened during that year except for him, but..."

Berwald toyed with a flower in his hand.

"'e let you down."

She wiped some imaginary dirt off on her skirt and nodded.

Out of the corner of his eye, Berwald spotted the herb they were looking for.