That One Time I Went on a Quest

Iborus (1/2)

In the distance, between a pair of willow trees swaying in the sunlit breeze, is a log cottage with a little red door. My feet are carrying me toward it, each step deliberate and slow.

I'm going home; I've never seen this place or been told of its existence but my heart races as I approach the door – it races because I've been away for far too long, wandering the world, lost and road-weary. When I walk inside there'll be a rocking chair by the granite-laid fireplace, waiting for me.

It would be good to finally sit down. The insistent pull in my heart tells me so, as do the overflowing tears that belong to a stranger.

I reach for the door but fear stops me: Don't. There's no one here. Do you not see the wild flowers bursting from the walls of bark, the red paint piling up like shed leaves on the front steps? This place is abandoned. You don't belong here. No one does.

Upon the threshold I stand, arm half-raised, eyes helplessly fixed upon the old-fashioned keyhole. An eternity pass.

'I'm home.'

No one hears me. The sweeping willows have devoured my words.

Soft sheets move against my skin. They smell of lavender – fresh ones, not the powdery twigs the palace cooks used to hang on the rafters.

There's shouting, coming from somewhere below. A man's yelling 'one, two, three, four!' and after every number there's a pregnant pause during which an eerie whistling would ride above the breeze – arrows, must be.

A wet towel runs from my brow to chin, lingering unnecessarily long over the nostrils. Stop that. Water is coming up my nose and there'll be sneezing if you don't stop oh too late now –

'Tch!'

'You sneeze weird,' I hear Haylis say. Of course it's her; a sensible person would've wrung the towel before rubbing it on the face of an unconscious person.

Argh, so bright – the room is overrun with sunlight. There are curtains on the window across the bed but Haylis had not drawn them. Where did the rain go? Judging by past trends it should be pouring every single day.

Haylis is sitting on the end of the bed with the sinister towel in one hand and a jar of green liquid in the other. Next to her is a tray of surgical tools – bone saws and such – all mercifully clean-looking.

I look about the room. This is no infirmary, but some sort of private suite: bed, table, mahogany cabinet, and a bathtub fitted with porcelain taps. A gold-threaded tea set sits upon a corner table along with three paper satchels, each printed with the red seal of Lord Maarakir of the Vassal States.

'You're not allowed to drink that,' Haylis says as she swaps the towel for a spatula from the tray.

Drinking fancy tea couldn't be further from my mind. 'How – where – what – why are you – what is going on? What is this place? Wait, no, before that, can I swap you for a real physician? No offense.'

'Why do you need one?' she asks with a raised eyebrow.

I open my mouth to speak but no words come out. I look down at my right arm and see no cast, no bandages, and not even a scratch. Bending it takes no effort. There is, however, a dark patch on the sheets beneath it; in fact dark patches are everywhere.

Oh Maker don't tell me I've wet the bed during –

The tinkling of glass makes me look up; Haylis is stirring a pinch of yellowy powder into the jar. 'All the physicians are tending to Aunt Kath,' she says, 'even though there's little they can do for her now.'