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"Witness the disease that causes your terrible malady! A blade's been laid in your gut," the old man whistled high, as if his observation was the most brilliant of insights; pleased by his own perception, he came closer to examine the wound. "Shoddy making is most apparent when it matters. When the brute pulled out, the edge stayed put and committed its most foul betrayal, just the handle went right off with him, loyal to the end."
The wounded man didn't seem comforted by this. A pub brawl had turned ugly. Weapons were pulled out, and for those that didn't have anything, bottles and chairs did the job. He knew that he hadn't been left unscathed, as he felt the sharp pain by his side, a fang of metal clinging to his stomach, but this mattered little. He knew that single wound wouldn't kill, and had repaid the violence done against him with an excess of generosity.
This was not his first brawl (though it was the final one for the drunkard who had found his match that day); nevertheless, despite previous scars and experiences, when the rush of fighting had finally finished, something felt wrong. The way it hurt wasn't like the other times. It was only natural to ask for assistance, and even more so, it is natural that a fellow client of the well-trodden pub and survivor of its recent conflict would assist his brother-in-drinks.
"Yes, indeed…" The tailed doing the inspection stooped to the body on the floor, pointing to a handle held under a death grip, soon to be taken and disposed of by the servants of the pub owner. "You've minced the man into the most exquisite dish for the crocodile, yes… But most impressive is he, who has made you into a living scabbard, ha!"
He'd have laughed at his own joke a little more by himself if he hadn't dashed forward immediately, gripping the wrist of the wounded that was about to pull the foreign object from his body.
"Don't. The moment it goes out, it'll be a hole in the waterskin." A moment is given. His grip relaxes. The wounded sits back.
"Hmph. You know how to preach, old man. But praying won't get it out. Will you keep blathering, or will you do something about it? Blasted thing hurts when I move."
"Help? With your wound? I'm most favored by my god." He waved his unblemished tail untouched by the brawl, a bizarre showcase of pride considering the situation. "But, hmm…" The man glanced around. None of the servants seemed intent to help, and the innkeeper wouldn't move a finger without good reason or money to back it up. "…When you most need a godless…" He mutters off a curse under his breath, hiding a smile with his sleeve. "The walk to the hospital is long, and the wound might worsen with the trek, but I know just the right thing to do, for my god taught a trick to my grandfather, my grandfather taught a trick to my father, and my father taught that very same trick to me, and such a secret of generations will bring you to the help you require, but you must heed my instructions, or you'll surely find a black tiger."
"If it came from godly inspiration, then it must be good. I shall hear you so."
The old man picked a bar rag and covered the blade, gripping it through the cloth. "I don't know what's in there." He uttered in a low tone. "Neither do you." and as he removed it, something was still sticking out of the wound. But what was it? Of what material, what shape or texture? It almost begged tactile inspection. "The heart cannot be affected by what it is oblivious of, but my art is far from perfect. Just as something can be hidden, an object's true nature can always be guessed, and the guess of a fool will surely be more dangerous than the wound itself.”
The wounded tailed shook his head. “Your words make little sense to me.”
The old man smiled. “Then think little of it, and go on your way. Shun everyone else, and only reveal the truth when it is time. If you're here tomorrow to get me something to kill my thirst, I'll know you heard my words well. Now go."
And so, the wounded went away after placing a few coins to pay for his dues and the many objects he had broken during the fight. And the old man was right in two accounts. The street was long, and the path to attain care would take longer still, but also, while the object was sticking out of him, he felt no pain. He barely cared for it; his heart was truly ignorant.
But this was a small village, and strange sights are not a thing you see every day. A passing butcher asked as he pointed to the indefinite object, "What's this, my friend? I've never seen a sight such as this. What is this, that sticks out of you?"
"It matters not, and it's none of your business, my friend. Let us not delay each other."
The butcher muttered. "If you tell me so, friend, then so be it…" and walked away, but not without whispering, "It seems sharp," and a little sharp, the thing in his side became. Through a newfound pain, the wounded tailed understood his predicament. And as the villagers witnessed this, they began gossiping. The terrible tiger called curiosity showed its fangs.
Closer he was to the path, but a milkmaiden had stopped him along the way, same as the butcher. "What's this, what's this? Are you hurt? Will you live?"
Placing a hand in front of the milkmaid, the wounded declared. "Oh, it's you. Don't worry about me, truly, there’s more pressing matters for your concern. I've seen your husband drunkenly gambling again. He seemed to have a few of your gowns as bargaining chips; shouldn't you check on him?"
The milkmaid instantly showed her fangs rather rudely, interest exchanged by wrath. Whatever she was asking about, forgotten just as well. "Is that true? I don't mind if he lost anything; He'll fit rather nicely as a replacement! I'll skin him and have him as a coat for the winter!" she declares as she storms off.
Children were the last to bother the wounded prior to his arrival, as they were mesmerized by his wound. What could it be? What could it be? The teeth of a most ferocious beast? The dagger of Never Forgets, trying to take a leg off? With each guess, the object changed slightly. With each guess, it hurt more and more. The wounded then again places a palm in front of him to stop the guesses. "Children, children, have you not known? You'll get one of these when you're an adult; all old people have one of these an hour or another." Bored by the mundane explanation, each of them goes their way, to play further or to ask rather embarrassing questions to their parents.
Soon, the wounded finally reach their destination. Laid in bed, the strange object is examined closely by a doctor, slightly shifted around by all the other guesses. It glints in the light that shines from the roof, straight and narrow, cold in temperature, a shade of grey with flecks of brown.
The godless silently observes as he prepares the equipment. "What is this?" He utters once he's finally sure that whatever it might be, it can be treated.
"Isn't it obvious? It is a blade."
And so it was. Five stitches to the belly, but the wounded man would heal well after some rest, and see to it that the old man would have something to drink the next day.