Behind The Searcher

When I opened my eyes the following morning, the man was nowhere to be seen. I felt a light twinge of concern, a slight more than I would have liked. I didn’t usually have any concerns for anyone. I was feeling much more alive, but even in this state I could only barely sit up. I may have slept and eaten well, but my wound was slowly but surely killing me.

My fingers were tracing patterns in the dust on the ground when he returned, holding a hare by the neck. I skinned and sliced the hare, as he prepared a fire to cook it upon. I was still working after he had finished, and I shifted uncomfortably under his eye. Noticing my discomfort, he apologized. I grunted, and cut the creature more forcefully. His eyes watched my hands grip the meat and run my blade through it roughly, sawing it into chunks. He had such a strange look in his eyes, one I couldn’t quite place. I let it slide.

The meat was speared and set over the fire to cook, and we were left with the awkward silence of two strangers forced together by an unpredictable situation.

“That is a deadly wound on your chest...” He stated, breaking the silence. “How did you acquire such a curse?”

I sighed, fiddling with the course fabric of my shirt, before briefly explaining my story to him.

He asked me to show him my infection, as it was mostly covered up by my clothing. As I hesitated, he stated reassuringly, “I want to help you.” His words jolted me. No one had ever wished to help me before. Even before I killed that man, I was an outcast. A freak. I had acted different from an early age, and was shunned for most of my childhood. I looked different as well. Whereas the other villagers had tanned skin and dark eyes, I had icy, pale skin and my eyes were a pale, piercing grey.

This man had olive skin and eyes as black as his unkempt hair. Scruffy suited him well. His glittering black eyes followed me as I undid my jacket. I uncovered the wound, and he inhaled sharply. It was admittedly worse than the last time I had checked. The skin surrounding it was an angry red, which contrasted greatly with my pale complexion. The wound itself excreted a pale fluid. It was bleeding and oozing openly, and any attempts to heal over and scab has failed miserably, leaving behind crusty, cracked skin. He told me to wait in the cave while he gathered some herbs to help calm the raging infection.

“Why are you helping me?” I questioned him as soon as he returned. He kneeled down in front of me and looked me in the eyes.

“Because I see a broken man that needs fixing. And I know that I can help you."

I scowled slightly, displeased at the way this made me feel. He ignored that, and ground up the herbs into a paste and spread it over the gash. I asked him what his name was to change the subject.

“I am Salvarsar.” I nodded vaguely, wanting to try the name out but denying myself.

He grabbed my shirt, tearing it into strips and tying it around my chest.

“You should get some more sleep; rest is the only thing that can help you now.”

I nodded, “Thanks. For everything.” I said, unsure of myself.

“Of course. Now sleep.”

I lay down on the frigid ground, and shifted into a relatively comfortable position.

“Goodnight, Salvarsar…” I whispered, before falling into a calm, healing sleep.