The Lone Rider

Chapter 9

"How are you feeling, boy?"

His grating voice cut at his ears, pulling him out of a fugue.

Damien blinked and immediately felt pain in his eyes. Light poured in from the window and blinded him, forcing him to turn his head. The tattered curtains flapped loudly like a whip, and when he moved the sheets under him dug into his skin like tiny razors. His body throbbed and his temples pulsed, everything sore. He felt pressure around his wrists and ankles and realized he was still tied down to the bed. His senses overloaded, he groaned as he pushed himself up. He could feel the warm air on his skin like a layer of water, goosebumps pricking their way up his spine. Every one of his senses blazed painfully, a cacophony of sensations that sent him over the edge.

"It will take some time to adjust. Relax. Let your body work it out, it knows what to do."

Several tedious moments passed before the light seemed to dim to a tolerable amount. All the sound in the room—curtains, sheets, creaking bed, and the man's slow breath—subsided into a dull hum. The pulsing of his blood slowed, and his temples relaxed, the vivid smell of sweat and wood was reigned in but still distinct. Damien blinked again and craned his neck to look at the figure speaking to him.

Faundell glowered from above, standing with his thick arms crossed and smooth weathered face tough like iron. He wore simple hide and patchwork armor, sewn and tied together with hewn tree bark and vine. Tucked under the rope he used as a belt was a pair of curved, serrated daggers. He wasn't a tall man, like most of the people from the area, but his visage was just as imposing all the same. "Well," he said, "how do you feel?"

"Like everything is new," Damien replied. Indeed, the overpowering senses were like nothing he'd felt before. His eyes, scanning the room of Faundell's cabin, inspected everything with a newfound curiosity. He noticed things he never had before such as the cobwebs in the ceiling corner., the air flowing through cracks in the wood, and the dust that lingered over every surface. He could see, smell, hear, and taste it all. As if the room was vibrating, everything connected in some way he never noticed before. It flowed together naturally and all made sense to him at once.

"What is your name?"

He glanced back up at Faundell, confused. "What?"

"What is your name?" the old man repeated.

"Damien Ultwire."

"Where are you from, Damien Ultwire?"

"Do we really need to do this?"

Faundell's stare gave him the answer.

Damien sighed. "Keltia. A small village south of Trussdingul called Smither's Ire."

"And where are you now?"

"A room in your cabin..."

"Don't be smart with me, boy. Where are you?"

"Sera'tel. The Dresden."

Faundell nodded. "Good. It seems your mind made the transition as well as your body. But, from here on out, you are no longer Damien Ultwire, a boy from Keltia, if that is what you wish. You are born anew, a Quellian warrior. You can choose your identity, a name, a history, but you cannot change what you really are now. That is permanent. So, what would you like to be called?"

"Damien is fine, for now," he said. He wasn't so sure about changing his identity, he liked his name. Liked who he was... for the most part.

"Very well," Faundell said. He pulled one of his daggers from his belt and cut Damien's bindings. "Come. Let's put that new body to the test."