A woman entered, her face mostly covered by a ceremonial hood over her head. “Tristan, I brought the medicine from Cigfa as soon as she’d finished it.” She suddenly turned, and Mozenrath caught a glimpse of the most beautiful hazel eyes he’d ever seen. Bright as amber and flecked with green and gold, they looked back at him appraisingly. “Ah. I see your guest has awakened Tristan. Do you wish me to leave?” Her voice! It sounded like songbirds whispering at dawn! Mozenrath felt himself woozy with delight.
“Not at all.” Tristan stood up, his mass of long peppery gray hair falling to his waist. “Mozenrath…this is Iaine, one of our younger druids.”
Iaine took her hood off and the corner of her lips pulled. She was a strong featured woman, her face was short and firm, with a squared off jaw and expressive lips. Her hair hung around her face in braids the color of fresh honey and tied about in bright red bands. She was smiling at him he realized when he looked up at her. “Good day. Are your injuries bad?”
He started to straighten up, the pride of a young cock preparing to strut for a hen, and groaned in agony. Iaine chuckled and took a glass bottle from her cloak. “Relax.” She said insistently and pushed him with a single hand back down. “You can’t risk opening those slashes on your back again.”
Mozenrath started to obey, breaking eye to eye contact and suddenly felt very different. As soon as he’d started into her eyes a kind of drunken stupor had come over him, he felt enamored, intoxicated, but that moment she’d looked away his mind had come back to him in a flash. He growled, something inside of him rebelling. He didn’t like magic being used on him. He didn’t like the feeling of being controlled.
Tristan took the bottle from her and nodded. “You might want to go help everyone prepare for tonight. I’m not sure our guest can take much more of your… natural charm.”
To his surprise Iaine blushed brightly. “I’m sorry, sometimes I forget.” She brought the hood back up over her face and nodded to Mozenrath, hurrying out the door and letting the bright sunlight stream in. For the briefest of instants, Mozenrath could swear he saw a bird taking flight. But it was gone as soon as the flap closed and Mozenrath grit his teeth against the glare.
“Don’t be embarrassed Mozenrath. Iaine has that effect the first few times you see her. It’s different if you’ve known her since she was a little one, but strangers like you aren’t ready for it.” Tristan chuckled and looked over the bottle. “Ah, perfect. You can always count on Cigfa for remedies. You caught a bad infection while you were out and we’ve been treating it with a salve.”
“How did I…” Mozenrath began insistently.
“I’m sure you have a great many questions.” Tristan said, halting the mans words. “Please, allow me to tend to you and I will explain how you got to be here.” He was a druid, first most and for most. He needed to be sure that this man wasn’t going to come down with any sort of sickness that could spread to the rest of the village. Foreigners always ran the risk of bringing some new disease or illness in that he and his people couldn’t fight. Tristan could recognize most sicknesses before they had a chance to spread, otherwise he would have let Iaine or one of the other druidess handle this. It was certainly more pleasant to have a young, handsome woman tending to a young man’s injuries than some white bearded old fellow.
“You were discovered by one of our hunters…” He explained, unwrapping the young man with as much gentleness as possible. There were no broken bones thank the spirits, but some skin had been scratched off in several places, bruises the size of a forearm and many sprains. “You were lucky you’d been discovered so quickly, other wise the damage could have been quite extensive.”
Mozenrath snorted, somehow feeling that he hadn’t needed any help. The druid touched lightly against one of the places where skin had been separated from muscle and the young man whimpered, gripping the pillows tightly. “How long have I been here?”
Tristan tilted the open bottle into his hands and a smooth, slightly green fluid came out. He rubbed the stuff between his callused palms and began to work it into the wounds. He whispered softly under his breath, making sure his words went unheard. Immediately a cool, refreshing feeling spread over Mozenrath’s entire body, an almost tickling sensation at his bruised ribs and battered shoulders. Tristan nodded. “About two weeks.” He said, satisfied as the soft white blue glow dissipated, soaking into the open injuries. “You were out cold at first, we’ve been force feeding you broth and bread, you woke up half way through and had a fever induced hallucination, took five people to hold you…”
“And this.” He held up his hand. “Is this from…whatever happened to me?”
Tristan sighed. “This kind of hurt…” he took the skeletal digits in his hand. Mozenrath suddenly felt weird. This thing, these bones where warm flesh should be, nobody had ever touched them before. He felt like they had been hidden…and should stay that way. “This kind of hurt drives deep. I do not think a fall down a mountain would have caused this kind of damage.”
“What could have…?”
Tristan’s face suddenly became quite serious. His penetrating blue eyes looked down into Mozenrath black ones, as if wondering if this memory loss could be false. “We will speak of this later. Right now I need to see how well you can move. Come.” He stood suddenly. “We are going to attempt a walk around the village.”
The Lost Man by Lynn Osburn