Chapter Text
It really was ridiculous, the famed Sir Roland, first Noble son of the House of Browman, Knight under King Harold of Chorion defeated by a Dire wolf. And what of his friends? An unpleasant image flashed behind his eyes, blood soaked and agonizing. It would be the last thing he had to remember them by, the terrible crunch of their bones as the wretched beast devoured them. The Dire wolf’s distraction had served him well though, giving him the much-needed chance to escape.
Roland could feel the bloodless chill creeping into his body. He was half crawling half dragging himself forward with only one good arm and leg with which to propel himself. His normally heavy armor felt immovable, his vision swam, and his head spun such that he could only see about a foot in front of him.
Roland had to keep moving. He had to keep going. He couldn’t stop. Roland had to find someone, anyone to help.
He didn’t see the door until he bumped into it. He propped himself against it and knocked frantically, yelling for the person inside, “Please! Please help me! I’m a Knight of his majesty King Harold! I need your aid!” The door did not open, and Roland’s heart sank, “Is anyone there? I demand you open this door at once! I need your help!” The door stood firmly, apathetic to his plight. Desperation squeezed at his lungs, and he clawed at the wood, “I’ve been hurt, badly. Please, I beg of you have mercy! Save me! Please…”
The door slowly creaked open and Sir Roland collapsed inside. Had he had full control of his facilities he might have prostrated himself before his savior. As it was, he outstretched his good arm in a gesture of thanks, “Thank you. Thank you for helping me! It hurts, it all hurts so much. They’re gone. They’re all dead. I-I don’t want to die too!” The dying screams of his friends still rang in his ears.
A hand reached down to help him up and he took it gratefully, but a wave of dizziness overtook him. He fell to the floor with the clatter of armor and a grunt of pain.
He chuckled awkwardly as he recovered himself.
“Let’s get you onto the cot.” The hand offered itself again and this time he managed to make it to the cot before he collapsed.
His panting breaths were hot against his face, deflected by the heavy helmet still covering him. His head was pounding, he could hear his heart beating in his ears and reverberating around the helmet.
Though reluctant to bother his savoir again he managed to string enough words together to ask for help, “Could you assist in taking my helmet off?”
The stranger gave the helmet a sharp tug and the pain felt like it would split his head in half, “Be careful!” he snapped.
“It’s stuck.” Came an irritatingly calm voice from beyond the suffocating helmet.
“Stuck?! Can you get it off?” The sound of his panicked breathing was overwhelming, but he still heard the quiet yes from the stranger. The sound of footsteps then a menacing snip sounded way to close to his right ear.
“Wait! Wait, is there any other option?” He gasped.
“Don’t be ungrateful Knight. Let me use the shears or the helmet stays on.”
Roland wondered how sharp the shears must be to cut through his leather chinstrap as easily as they did. The helmet was pulled off and the resulting rush of fresh air felt like a gift from God.
“So, how bad is it?”
His Savior leaned forward to get a better look at his face and his eyes focused on them for the first time. Their skin was light brown, tendrils of black hair hung in front of their dark brown eyes.
“Am I dead? You look like an angel-” Roland blacked out before he managed to finish his sentence.
Sir Roland had no idea where he was. The last thing he remembered was the Dire wolf. His friends. Where were they? Had they made it out too? What had happened to him, every part of his body hurt.
A clatter sounded from across the room and Roland whipped around, “Who are you? What am I doing here?” he demanded, unable to keep the note of accusation from his voice.
As he spoke Roland finally fully registered his surroundings, he was curled on a cot in the corner of a small room. The ceiling was so low he imagined that it would nearly brush the top of his head when he stood up. A ladder was propped against the wall by his cot, so from where he lay, he could not see where it lead to. A fire was lit in the fireplace along the far wall and a caldron hung over it by a chain. Whatever was cooking in the caldron smelled very appetizing. Together with a woodburning stove, a table, and a couple of cabinets it made what he imagined to be the kitchen. Every other available wall was stuffed with books, trinkets, and bottles of substances he could not name. Herbs hung drying from every available space giving the room an overwhelming but pleasant earthy scent. In the center of the room was a desk and an apothecary cabinet whose shades of wood did not match. A plush carpet blanketed the floor and on top of it were a few large cushions sewn together from fabric scraps. Ugh peasants, always saving every little thing and making their homes a mess.
The peasant crossed the room and reached toward the bandage wrapped around his head.
Roland flinched away, “Hey! Watch what you’re doing. Just who do you think you are?”
The peasant flinched back at his yelling and looked a little reproachful, “I’m here to help you. Unless you favor your chances outside with all those injuries.”
Roland scowled, it had been a while since he had been spoken to with such disrespect, and he did not like it one bit. “Help me. How are you going to help me?! I can barely move without excruciating pain. My friends torn apart by that damned Dire wolf. I… I should have died with them.” He closed his eyes, trying to will away the tears or the memories, he wasn’t sure which. “It was chaos. The Dire wolf came out of nowhere. We tried to fight it off, but it was useless. I was useless. If I had just kept my footing! If I hadn’t gotten careless maybe some of them would still be alive. It’s all my fault, I’m a worthless Knight who couldn’t even protect his comrades. I let them die horribly, ripped to shreds by that monster!”
“But you’re alive.”
“Astute observation peasant.” Roland spat venomously, “As if I couldn’t tell by the pain in my arm and leg and head. Oh God my head.” The yelling really had not been doing him any favors headache-wise.
“You can still avenge them.”
“I suppose you’re right, but I can’t do that for a long while yet with the state my body’s in.”
“Well, if you stopped with your whining, I could treat you and you could avenge them a whole lot sooner.” The peasant muttered.
Roland glared, “What was that? Fine peasant you can finally treat me.”
“Not with that attitude.”
“What do you mean not with that attitude?! I am Sir Roland first Noble son of the House of Browman, Knight under King Harold of Chorion! I will speak how I please and you will show me the respect befitted to someone of my title.”
The peasant raised an eyebrow, “I have to say I liked you better when you were groveling at my feet.”
“When I was what?” Roland sputtered.
“Doesn’t the Knights code of chivalry dictate that courtesy should be shown to a host?”
“Yes, I am aware of that, no matter how pitiful your home may be. Actually, now that I think about it how is it so cool in here? It feels also most as if I am not wearing any clothes.” He pulled up the sheet covering him and sure enough he was naked but for his brace, “How dare you! Why have you disrobed me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry did you expect me to treat your injuries with the armor on?”
The way the peasant talked to him was starting to make Sir Roland feel very stupid. Panic seized him again when he realized that he didn’t know where his armor was, “You better not have done anything to it! All my armor combined is worth more than your weight in gold. How did you get all of it off me anyway? Usually, it takes two or three people to-”
“Gardening. Builds muscle.”
“Huh, that’s rather impressive actually. I don’t suppose you would have anything at all that would fit-” The peasant shook their head, “Great. Fantastic, I’m practically naked. You better not have besmirched my honor peasant. You will be punished severely if you have.”
The peasant rolled their eyes and stirred whatever was in the caldron, “You have sustained a broken leg, your sword arm is shattered, and you have a nasty gash on the back of your head accompanied by what I suspect to be a concussion. I have applied poultices of honey, rosemary and white willow bark for the inflammation and arnica poultice for the bruising. I have attached splints to your arm and leg, do not remove them,” they hissed as he moved to touch the splint and bandages on his bad arm, he lowered his hand, feeling a little embarrassed, “I applied the same poultice to your head but with yarrow to stop the bleeding. You should be healed in three to six months.”
Roland sat up so quickly his head spun, “Three to six months?! I can’t be gone that long. I must report to his majesty as soon as possible. I can’t fail my Lord. I need to inform him of what happened. I must go at once.”
No sooner than he had placed his foot on the floor his whole body crashed down behind him. Blinding pain ripped through him and his vision went black for a moment, he even thought he saw the disrespectful peasant flinch at his impact. “You don’t understand peasant, I am a Knight. It is my duty to report back to my King. I must go!”
“And just how far do you think you will make it in that condition? Better heal here and report to his majesty later than die on the way and never give him your report.”
Disappointment stung him but he knew the peasant was right, “I have your word then? That I will be able to return to him once you have healed me.”
“You have my word. Now drink this.” They held out a bottle of greenish liquid.
Roland eyed it suspiciously, “What is that?”
“A tonic for your pain and stress.”
“If you say so.” He reluctantly took the bottle, “I should warn you if it is poison, I will still have enough time to kill you before it kills me.”
“Have it your way. Bottoms up!” The wretched peasant grabbed the bottom of the bottle and tilted the contents down his throat.
Roland choked and swallowed as quickly as he could, “God that was vile! What in the King’s name was in that? How long will it take to kick in?”
“About an hour,” the peasant replied unbothered and used their sleeve to wipe the remaining liquid from his mouth.
Roland felt like a scolded child. His stomach growled probably after coming into contact with whatever was in that vile tonic. It reminded Roland of how hungry he was, and he looked longingly at the caldron.
“If you want any you’re going to have to ask nicely!” The peasant sang scooping some of the tantalizing stew into a wooden bowl.
Roland gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to grovel for anyone other than his majesty, but he didn’t have a choice. If he didn’t eat, he wouldn’t have the strength to heal and return to his King. He steeled himself, wincing as he dragged himself across the floor to the peasants feet. He bowed his head, “I am starving. Please may I have some? Please.” What a sight he must make, mostly naked and begging a lowly peasant for food. No response came from above him so Roland looked up hoping that he wouldn’t have to debase himself more.
The peasant stared at him eyes wide and mouth open in surprise, “I was really expecting more of a please and thank you, but I guess this works too.”
Roland’s face flushed red, and he was glad the peasant had turned to serve up another bowl, so they didn’t see his shame. The peasant brought the two bowls and a loaf of bread to the table, then helped him into a chair.
The food was plain in comparison to the lavish meals Roland had enjoyed at the King’s table, but it looked edible and Roland worried that any criticism would end with his going to bed with an empty stomach. At this point he would be grateful for anything to get the horrible taste of the tonic out of his mouth.
It was with mounting horror that Roland realized that his journey across the floor had left him too weak to hold a spoon. He stared down at the spoon, willing his hand to grip it, but his fingers barely moved. He could feel eyes on him from across the table and even his ears reddened with shame. Helpless, useless, weak little Knight. His hand trembled hard and he lost his grip on the spoon. It fell to the table with a clatter.
With a herculean effort he lifted his head to meet the eyes of his host. “Will you… help me eat?” He was hungry enough to suffer this indignity. He would have to be helpless. The peasant nodded and scooted their chair next to his.
The stew was far better than he had expected, and he said as much, “What’s in it?”
“Venison with celery, potatoes, and carrots. You should try the bread. It’s home made too.”
“But what did you season it with? The meat is so tasty. Can… Can I have another bite?” The feeling of filling his hollow stomach overrode the shame and he began to enjoy himself. “Can I have some with the bread too?” His host nodded seeming to fight a smile at his enthusiasm.
“It’s even better with the bread! It’s so good! I must say despite the unpleasant welcome I am enjoying the dinner you made.”
“Did the Great Knight of Kind Harold just compliment my cooking? Honestly, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I’ve been known to give out compliments every so often but don’t expect any more, peasant!”
“Stop calling me peasant.”
“What should I call you instead?”
“Herbalist.”
“Don’t you have a name?” If you asked Roland, Herbalist wasn’t much of a step up from Peasant.
“I do.”
“Come on give me your name. It’s only fair, you know mine.”
“I don’t remember your name. Did you ever tell it to me?”
“What do you mean you don’t remember my name? It’s Roland.”
“Not a bad name. I still won’t tell you mine though. Don’t trust you enough.”
“Now hold on a- No that’s fair I suppose. I do hope you tell me eventually, Herbalist is quite the mouthful.”
They ate the last few bites in a silence which Roland broke, “Well if there is nothing else, I am going to bed. I need to rest as much as I can to give my body the chance to heal. A hand, please?” The Herbalist obliged and he slowly made his way back to his cot. “Thank you, Herbalist. What will you do while I sleep?”
The Herbalist shrugged, “Probably clean up supper and work with my plants.”
“All right then… Just make sure you get sleep too. I don’t want a drowsy herbalist treating my injuries.”
“Rest well.”
“Good night then.”