Chapter 3: Part 3: The Sting of Jagged Edges

When Sebastian came to, there wasn’t much of his body that didn’t hurt.

His whole right side felt...well, it felt like a fucking djävul crashed into him, didn’t it? Not a lot else could compare to that, really.

From the feel of things, his shoulder was probably dislocated — again.

Thankfully his arm didn’t quite feel broken this time though. Bruised to shit sure, but still able to grip and therefore able to swing a sword if he needed to. Right now that alone seemed enough of a minor miracle that he would take it.

Judging by the pain lancing through his chest every other breath, he had three cracked ribs at least; one possibly broken. Fucked up his knee again too, but what's new? His leg might still support his weight though — long enough for him to find his horse and dig out his healer's kit anyway.

But if he could maybe bandage up the worst of his injuries just enough to get himself into the saddle, then he could ride for the village nearby and hopefully find a proper healer there.

The right side of his face was a screaming swollen ball of agony though. He couldn't even open his right eye for the swelling and when he touched the side of his face —

Oof. A mistake, that.

Pain so bad the sharp flare made his head light up with the force of it, his fingertips coming away wet and bloody.

Just fucking great, Sebastian thought to himself as he lay still and watched the dappled sunlight playing through the leaves crowning the old oak above him. He wondered if he might need to add "possible concussion" to his injury tally.

Well, maybe the wound would scar. Then come the end of the season, when Sebastian was tucked up back in Eldfäst with the rest of his Order, Corvis would finally shut up about all that "real Relicts have facial scars" bullshit he was always on about. Like wearing your mistakes was a badge of honor or something, and not yet more proof of how Sebastian had fucked things up.

Again.

Sebastian did the math as he lay there in the leaf litter under the giant oak, working out how much his injuries might have set him back from taking on any other jobs. How long until they healed just enough he wouldn't be at risk in a fight; how much a village healer would probably charge to put him to rights; whether or not he had the coin to pay for any amount of healing, much less afford the full bill to take care of everything he needed.

He grimaced at the number he ended up with.

Maybe…Maybe just the ribs then. Get the healer to see to the worst of his injuries, the bare minimum he would need to defend himself properly and travel. He could stick to porridge and foraging while his Relict healing took care of the rest.

One blessing it seemed the Powers-That-Be-Fickle-Bastards had seen fit to bestow upon him, though. Based on the quiet and — oh yeah, the big fucking clue that Sebastian was alive to wake up at all — there was a staggeringly high likelihood that the djävul was either dead or long gone.

Judging by the stale rankness in the air laced through heavily with a tang of iron that Sebastian could smell, all coming from somewhere fairly close by; the former was rather more likely than the latter.

Another stroke of luck.

Was it too much to hope for that the djävul's insides had stayed put and in one piece?

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Probably.

But if he could still get the thing's gallbladder, he wouldn't have to live near as lean the next few weeks. Could even afford to splurge on a decent healing maybe. That would shorten his recovery to mere days before he was fit to hit the Path and take on paying work again.

Not just a patch job either, a half-hearted effort that would leave him with minor aches and pains every time a storm came through or he sat freezing his way through another godsawful winter in Eldfäst. Who the fuck had come up with the stunningly brilliant idea to build the Wolf Order's drafty old keep high up in the Langra Mountains — instead of somewhere nice and sunny and warm, like the Griffins or the Cranes got?

Lucky bastards.

But if the healer was really skilled, then the healing would be enough it would almost be like he had never been injured at all. That was assuming Sebastian could meet the price, of course.

Bit much to hope to find someone with skills like that in some little backwater village though. Still, he wouldn't know until he had dragged himself to their doorstep to ask, would he?

Sebastian tried to sit up, only for the whole world to suddenly choose that exact moment to whirl and spin around him. He clutched at his head, cursing.

Maybe…maybe he should rest another moment. Take his time. He really wasn't in any rush, not yet anyway.

By the angle of the sun, the day still had plenty of hours left before it was time to make camp and turn in for the night. He certainly wasn't in so much of a hurry he needed to risk passing out again in the middle of a strange forest again, easy prey for whatever else might roam these woods.

Prodding carefully at the belt pouch he kept his potions in, Sebastian had a brief flare of hope that maybe he could get himself a dose of Caladrius to speed the healing process up. But at the feeling of jagged glass and the sharp edges of broken bottles that met his gloved fingers, his heart sank, a clear disappointment even through all the layers of leather.

Fucking perfect.

It was okay. He had spares in his saddlebags. He just needed to get up and find out in which direction they'd ended up. Or more accurately, in which direction his useless horse — to which said saddlebags were attached — had wandered off to.

That was easier said than done, of course.

 

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Author's Notes:

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