"Don't move, elf. I'm not done yet," the stranger, who is bending over him, says when he opens his eyes with a pained groan. What the fuck is the man doing? And who is that guy? He blinks, trying to focus. The blurry image sharpens. No, he has never seen him before, Gallatin is certain of it. Alarmed, he tries to sit up, but the stranger presses him back onto something soft that must be lying under his head.
"I said, don't move," he commands. "You need more stitches. Those bastards carved your face up pretty good."
Damn, now he remembers. That is why the right side of his face burns like it is on fire. The ambush. He must have killed at least three of the attackers, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. Suddenly, there was a flash of steel directly in front of his eyes, a searing pain, then everything went black. What happened afterwards, he has no clue. Has the stranger found him, injured and unconscious, and taken him to this place? Wherever this is.
There is no time to gaze around and investigate though as the man dabs at his face with a bloodied cloth and then sticks a needle right into his flesh, next to his eye. He sucks in a sharp breath through gritted teeth, suppressing a groan of agony and lies as still as possible. With a pointy needle so close to his eye, it is the reasonable thing to do, he suspects. Although what he is doing hurts like hell, it seems the stranger wants to help, not torture or kill him. Not something that you can easily expect to find here in the highlands of Nazair, especially not when you are an elf.
Ignoring the pain and the unsettling thought that the stranger is sewing his face back together, he has a closer look at the man. He is surprisingly young, not much older than twenty, with almond-shaped blue-grey, slightly slanted eyes and high cheekbones. At first glance, he would have taken him for a fellow elf. However, what little Gallatin can see of his ears under the tangled, light brown curls is completely blunt. Definitely human. Which is not exactly a reassuring thought. After all, he was attacked by those bloody highland bastards solely because of his pointy ears. And, in his experience, all humans are pretty much the same - traitorous, racist, good-for-nothings that multiply like rabbits and take whatever they desire with no respect at all for the far older and more advanced elven culture and their achievements.
So, can he really trust this Dh'oine? He looks honest enough, but looks can be deceiving. He might be just another one of those highlanders, who else would travel through this remotest of areas? Perhaps he has sinister ulterior motives for helping him? Elves have been kidnapped, enslaved and worked to death by humans. Or they were forced to fight against lions or bears or each other in their arenas for the Dh'oines' sick amusement. He has heard rumours of one such arena in Claremont in Ebbing, which is not that far from where they are. The Dh'oine could make a fair amount of money by selling him to one of those slavers, but only if he stays alive.
"Fuck!" Gallatin hisses through gritted teeth when a stitch hurts even worse than the ones before.
"Sorry," the stranger says, biting his lip in concentration. "Regrettably, my mother only taught my older sisters the art of embroidery. Not that I'd have been any good at sitting still for hours on end doing boring stuff like this anyway but it would have come in handy."
He wipes away more blood, then inserts another stitch that hurts even more. Gallatin grates his teeth in agony and squinches his eyes shut.
"Done any time soon?" he pants after another couple of very painful stitches down his cheek. It feels like this has been going on for ages, and he has definitely had enough.
"Keep quiet, elf, or it might hurt even more," the youngster warns. "I'm doing my best, but that's a hell of a long cut. Sorry, but I fear, you won't win any beauty contests anymore with that face."
Gallatin grunts. Not winning beauty contests is easily the least of his concerns. He has started to tremble with the pain and suddenly feels like he needs to throw up. Not a very good idea at the moment. He swallows down the bile and takes a deep, shuddering breath. He is an elven warrior, not a snivelling human, he can take a little pain, even a lot of it. It will be over eventually. Just keep breathing and think of something nice for a change. But what? Ever since they were driven out of their ancestral home, Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers, life has been nothing but a shit hole. Hunger, cold, fighting, and more fighting. After Filavandrel's failed uprising, they have had nowhere to stay, so he went south following the rumour that life was easier for elves in Nilfgaard. Only to be waylaid and almost killed in this bloody wilderness. Nothing nice here, except— Suddenly the image of a pair of almond-shaped blue eyes materialises in his mind. The stranger's. Damn, he must be getting delirious ... Then, he faints.
When he comes to, the stranger is still at it. He cannot have been out long. Gallatin heaves a groan when the man inserts the needle once again, this time close to the corner of his mouth.
"Shh, I'm almost done. Just another two, three stitches," he says, turning his patient's face a little more towards the light with the hand that is not holding the needle. The strong, calloused hand of a warrior, still, it feels almost gentle and pleasantly cool on his burning skin. Inside the room, it has become considerably darker by now and a torch has been placed next to Gallatin's head so that the stranger can see enough. There are fine beads of sweat on his slightly sloping, furrowed forehead and specks of dried blood in his young face as if he has been in a fight just recently. In the flickering light of the torch, his eyes look darker, too, almost olive like his well-worn shirt. He smells of sweat, leather and horse, but not unpleasantly so, on the contrary. If he only stopped stabbing at his face with that needle of his, he might actually like the man. Gallatin closes his eyes again while the stranger finishes the suture. It takes not just two or three more stitches, but seven until he declares with a smile that he is done. A smile that looks pretty cute in his otherwise rather serious, almost stern face. Gallatin heaves a sigh of relief.
"I don't have any ointments, but I sent one of my men to get some herbs that help prevent infection," the stranger says while putting away his sewing kit. "You should rest now. You've lost quite a bit of blood. I'll be back."
Gallatin nods weakly. He would like to thank the stranger but with the searing pain in his face he is not sure he can form any coherent words. He probably should not try to do so anyway.
The young human rises to his feet without another word and leaves with long, purposeful strides. Gallatin groans, then raises his head a little to glance around. He is terribly tired, nevertheless he doubts that he will be able to sleep. His face hurts far too much. It must look a mess, too. It is probably a good thing that there are no mirrors here, or are there? What is this place anyway? It looks like a small tent. But who would camp here in the middle of nowhere? He looks around searching for clues. He cannot be absolutely sure in the dim light of the torch, but the tent seems to be entirely made of black fabric with no emblem or coat of arms or anything that could hint at who the stranger is or where he comes from. Besides two leather saddlebags and the furs he is lying on, the only other items he can spot are several rolls of parchment lying in a heap on the ground and a bow and quiver filled with arrows leaning against the side of the tent. The stranger must be very confident that he will not nick the weapons and what looks like important documents and make a run for it. He is not wrong, either, Gallatin must admit when he tries to get up and the entire room starts to spin. No, running is not a good idea, at least not yet, as he would probably not even make it out of the tent on his own two legs. There is nothing he can do but wait for the man's return. And hope that he is as honest as he looks.
Gallatin must have fallen asleep for a while after all despite his aching face. He is startled awake by the stranger shaking him lightly by the shoulder.
"Sorry to wake you up, elf, but you should drink this. And your injury needs to be dressed properly. Can you sit up a little?" He holds out a mug filled with what smells like hot herbal tea to Gallatin, who blinks, then raises his head groggily.
"Wait, I'll help you," the stranger says and puts his arm under Gallatin's neck to support him.
The tea has a woody, bitter taste. Willow bark and hops, Gallatin assumes. Not exactly his favourite flavour but a good choice. Pain-relieving, anti-inflammatory and sleep-inducing. Even Francesca would approve. Drinking hurts and he can only take very small sips so he does not have to move his mouth much, but he is extremely thirsty. With the stranger's help, Gallatin manages to empty the entire content of the mug before lying down again with a groan.
"I made a poultice from some herbs and animal fat. This might sting a little but it will accelerate the healing process," the stranger explains before spreading the paste onto his face from temple to chin. It does sting, and not only a little but a hell of a lot. Gallatin groans, clenching his fists as well as his teeth. Then the stranger covers the suture with strips of felt.
"Just try to lie still so the dressing won't come off. I'd rather not wrap your entire head in bandages. And, should you wonder what happened to the bastards who attacked you, they're all dead as doornails. Like they deserve to be." With a grim smile, he pats the hilt of the sword he carries in his belt. "Now go back to sleep, elf. I have important business to attend to, but I'll be back to check on you in case you need anything." He rises to his feet and makes to leave.
"By the way, I'm Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. Of Vicovaro," he says, then he turns around and disappears into the night.
Cahir something of Vicovaro. He does not remember most of it, but the long name has a nice ring to it. And not only that. What is a lot more important, it means that the stranger is not one of the Nazairian highlanders but from far south, from a country that, if he is not mistaken, joined the Nilfgaardian Empire during the reign of Emperor Fergus more or less voluntarily. A country that, like Nilfgaard proper, might be more friendly towards elves. Perhaps that is why the stranger - no, Cahir - is helping him? But what is he doing so far from home? Many of the highland clans of Nazair are known to have resisted subjugation by Nilfgaard, still causing trouble for the imperial forces years after the conquest. Has Cahir been sent here on a military mission? Gallatin wonders. He seems a bit young for that, though. And if he was leading an army battalion tasked to attack the clans, surely the noise of many soldiers would resound across the camp. But he can hear nothing of the sort, just the occasional soft whinny of a horse. The tent would sport the golden sun of Nilfgaard, too, and Cahir would wear the black armour of the imperial army, not clothes that make him look more like a brigand than a soldier. Perhaps he is a deserter hiding in the wilderness of the Nazairian highlands? However, somehow, Gallatin doubts it. A secret mission, maybe? Well, he will certainly not find out tonight. It is not really important anyway. The main thing is that his saviour does not seem to be the usual northern racist. It is enough for now.
With an exhausted sigh, Gallatin closes his eyes. The burning pain from the fresh suture has turned into a dull ache by now that is almost bearable. The tea and the poultice seem to be taking effect. Cahir has promised to be back, too. Which feels surprisingly reassuring considering he hardly knows anything about the man besides his name and country of origin. Funny, how a total stranger, a Dh'oine to boot, can feel so safe, Gallatin muses before, hardly another minute later and thoroughly spent, he drops off with the image of his unlikely human saviour on his mind.