Chapter 1 #2
Now, however, was an exceptionally good time to harvest Woundwort leaves: They had all summer to gather strength, and even though Merrick hadn’t succeeded in cultivating the plant in his garden, it was rather common in the woods surrounding the village.
Usually, Kraghtol preferred the forest to the west of the village since he knew the spots there well.
Since he had been there just yesterday, however, and he would have to cross the Frostwater again, he went east today.
He didn’t really think Fennew and his friends would be back at the bridge, at least not if he had landed his punches right, but he also didn’t want to take any chances.
He didn’t particularly enjoy fighting. In fact, he hated it. Part of his Orcish heritage was a tall frame full of muscles he was able to maintain effortlessly and an exceptional toughness, but truth be told, he would have gladly exchanged both for a peaceful life.
Sadly, the muscles and brutish strength he possessed were among the very few features of his that gave him somewhat of a standing in the village.
People didn’t want to meet him after dark because they saw him as dangerous.
Which made for a very lonely thirteenth month.
At the same time, his strength was welcome whenever there was a need for heavy manual labor.
Kraghtol could work for two in the harvest season, and when a heavy boulder or log had to be moved, or a cart had to be pulled out of the mud and no ox was available, the half-orc was good enough.
He knew he should be thankful for the opportunity to earn some money for his foster father and add a bit of positive reputation to his name, but even though he did all of that without complaining, he didn’t feel thrilled with this role in life.
The forest around him today was quiet, with no sign or sound of a logger or hunter.
The calm was relaxing, and the moisture all around him was soothing his sore body.
But neither the pleasant weather nor the peaceful environment could stop the same unwanted thoughts from pouring in that often plagued him in the days after a brawl.
No, Kraghtol hated fighting, and he didn’t find manual labor very fulfilling either.
What Kraghtol really wanted was to become a healer, like Merrick.
He wanted to help him treat patients and heal the sick and wounded.
And at some point, to take over the position as the village healer, so Merrick could finally relax a bit.
It wasn’t even that there was not enough to do. In the winter months, there were enough sick people, even in a small village like Mistpine, and in the summer months, injuries happened often enough to warrant a pair of helping hands. There was just one problem:
Nobody wanted to get treated by the brutish half-orc. Kraghtol couldn’t even blame them. Who in their right mind would like to get healed by the village thug? He might cure your cough, or he might break your arm — unpredictable like a wild animal.
Kraghtol shook his head to get rid of the thought. He just had to keep his anger under control and behave like a normal human being. Then certainly, people would accept him as a healer just fine.
Carefully, Kraghtol moved a big fern to the side, and the sight that greeted him put a smile on his face. In front of him and embedded between a pine stump and a mossy boulder, there was a rather large patch of Woundwort, ready for harvest. Perhaps the day would turn out to be not so bad after all.
He was just halfway through harvesting the medical leaves, and his pouch was nearly filled to the brim when he suddenly heard something out of the ordinary.
It had sounded like a voice, but it had been so faint that Kraghtol wasn’t certain until the voice called out again.
He still wasn’t sure what was being said, but at least now he was certain that there had been someone calling.
Turning around until he heard the voice again, he decided on a direction and hurried towards the noise. Perhaps someone was in danger!
“Hello? Do you need help?” he called out while breaking through the undergrowth. A few seconds later, he received an answer:
“Help! Yes! I’m over here.”
The voice sounded old and peculiar, and when Kraghtol discovered the source only half a minute later, he understood why.
In front of him, lying on the ground helplessly, was an old…
person. It was nigh impossible to say if it was a man or a woman, since all the figure seemed to comprise were wrinkles and cartilage.
The human — at least that Kraghtol was reasonably sure of — was lying on the ground in a decidedly unhealthy position, with at least one leg twisted beyond what bones and sinews should be capable of.
The face, however, that reminded Kraghtol somewhat of a shriveled apple, distorted into a broad grin when the half-orc came into view.
“Yes, finally. You have heard me. You need to help me, will you?”
Kraghtol nodded, already approaching the figure.
“Yes, of course. Are you hurt?”
“Hurt? Yes, yes, of course I am hurt. Would I lie here on the ground like that if I were not hurt? My leg is clearly hurt, is it not?”
Kraghtol nodded, but hesitated for a moment longer. The leg didn’t look well at all, and the old one in front of him would be unable to walk. They didn’t show a single sign of pain in their voice, but Kraghtol had enough secondhand experience to recognize that they had to be in shock.
“I will need to carry you to the village, to our healer. Are you okay with that? And you need to tell me if I cause you any pain.”
To his surprise, the old person seemed to chuckle.
“Yes, I suppose you can carry me. That shouldn’t be difficult for you at all, right? Big and strong as you are…”
He shook his head. The shock had to be severe, and it was obvious that the other person was not thinking straight.
No one ever wanted to be touched by him, let alone be carried.
Deciding to take advantage of the situation until the surely immense pain would return, he carefully lifted the stranger off the ground.
It wasn’t difficult at all. The old human was wiry and thin and didn’t weigh more than a child. And the body was… fragile, in a gnarly way. It probably wouldn’t take much effort to snap it like a twig and…
Kraghtol shook his head again. More unwanted thoughts.
Of course, he would never do something like that and had never, ever acted on these impulses before.
It wasn’t even always violent thoughts like the one just now.
No, sometimes, he fought the sudden urge to run, or to sing, which would have been acceptable to give in to.
But most times, giving in to these intrusive thoughts would inevitably end with him hurting someone — or himself.
And that was certainly not what he wanted.
It wasn’t hard to carry the wounded person home through the woods.
Every so often, the old man or woman seemed to twitch and squirm, which Kraghtol interpreted as onsetting pain and made him try to move even more carefully.
Finally, he arrived at Merrick’s house and placed the patient on the sickbed as gently as he could.
“You never cease to amaze me, Kragh. I distinctly remember sending you out for Woundwort. And yet, you return with a patient. Who is it?”
Despite his friendly banter, Merrick was already beginning to examine the newcomer.
“I don’t know. Didn’t get to ask their name,” Kraghtol replied and went to prepare a bowl of water. Since Merrick was the healer, his task in such a situation was to assist. If the patients allowed even that.
Before Merrick could address the new patient, however, the wrinkly eyes snapped open, and the somewhat croaky voice preempted him.
“No, no, no. I don’t want you, old man. I want to be treated by the green one, the strong one, yes? Where is he?”
Merrick hesitated for a second, and a shadow of doubt crossed over his face, but then he smiled and shot Kraghtol an unusual look that took the latter a moment to understand. It was pride.
“Yes, of course. Kragh is more than capable of caring for your leg. You are in excellent hands.”
And with that, Kraghtol’s foster father stepped back and made way for the half-orc, who felt incredibly confused.
A patient? A patient who not only didn’t object to being treated by him but actually requested it?
Suddenly, his dreams of being a healer like his father didn’t seem so far away anymore.
Then, he felt incredibly nervous, and sweat poured out of his pores.
What if he made a mistake? Or if he hurt or killed his first patient? What if he didn’t know what to do?
His onset of panic must have been rather apparent, because Merrick placed a soothing hand on his shoulder — not an easy feat considering their height difference — and nodded encouragingly towards his foster son, as if to say, “You got this.”
Merrick was right, Kraghtol decided and fought down his fear.
This wasn’t difficult, perhaps a sprained ankle or a broken bone.
He had watched his old man treat such injuries countless times, and he had read all three medical books they possessed so many times he could effortlessly recall the name of every leg bone if necessary.
So, he took a deep breath and stepped forward, for the first time actually examining the patient in front of him.