CHAPTER 5 — “Rot and Ruin” #4
Mariella hops down from the wall, approaching with the careful concern of someone who’s seen injured people before and knows not to crowd them.
“Floor 2?”
“Cleared. Boss dead. Spawn rate should drop further.”
“That’s good.” She’s close enough now to see the details—the burns on my arms, the gashes across my chest, the general mess of my everything. “That’s really good. But you need healing.”
“I’m a healer.”
“You’re a healer with no mana and barely any HP. I can see your status if I focus—you’re at thirty-four health. That’s not enough to survive tripping over a rock.”
I like her, Johnson says. She’s practical.
“I’ll recover.”
“You’ll recover faster if you let someone help.” Mariella’s eyes are steady, challenging. “There’s a healer in the village. Old woman named Gretel. She’s not much, but she can stabilize you while your mana regenerates.”
“I don’t need—”
“Velthar.” Her voice is soft but firm. “Let someone help you. Just this once.”
I want to argue. Want to insist that I’m fine, that I don’t need anyone, that depending on others is what got me killed the first time.
But I’m standing in front of someone who’s been nothing but reliable since she arrived. Who fixed my barn and cooked my meals and asked for nothing in return except honest work and a place to stay.
Who hasn’t betrayed me.
Yet.
The ‘yet’ is unfair, Johnson observes. She’s proven herself. Repeatedly. At some point, you have to stop expecting everyone to stab you.
“Do I?”
You do if you want to be something other than miserable forever. A pause. Also, she’s right. You look terrible. Professional opinion.
I take a breath. Let it out slowly.
“Fine,” I say to Mariella. “Lead the way.”
Her smile is small but genuine. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
It was that hard, Johnson says privately. But you did it anyway. Progress.
Progress.
Yeah.
Maybe.
The village healer is, as Mariella said, not much.
Gretel is older than Granny Thorn, which I didn’t think was possible, with hands that shake slightly and eyes that squint even in dim light. But her healing magic is steady, if weak, and she patches my worst wounds while clucking disapproval at the state of me.
“Dungeon diving,” she mutters. “Foolish business. My grandson tried it once. Came back with one arm less than he started with.”
“I still have both arms.”
“This time. Next time, maybe not.” She finishes the last wound, stepping back to examine her work. “You’ll live. Try not to make me regret the effort.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Charming woman, Johnson observes from his perch on a nearby shelf. I can see why the village loves her.
Mariella is waiting outside when I emerge, leaning against the wall of Gretel’s cottage with her arms crossed. The sun is setting behind her, painting the sky in oranges and reds, and for a moment she looks like something out of a painting.
I push that thought aside.
“Better?” she asks.
“Better. Not good, but better.”
“Good enough to walk home?”
“Good enough to walk home.”
We start down the road toward the farm, Johnson hopping alongside us, the last light of day stretching our shadows long across the dirt.
“I made dinner,” Mariella says after a while. “While you were… doing whatever you were doing down there. Stew. It’s probably cold by now, but it’s better than nothing.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” She shrugs. “I wanted to. You’ve been good to me, Velthar. Better than anyone’s been in a long time. The least I can do is make sure you eat.”
She’s sincere, Johnson says. Genuinely sincere. It’s almost uncomfortable.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t tasted my stew.” A small smile. “It’s not terrible, but it’s not winning any awards either.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“It’s adequate. I’m aiming for adequate.”
We walk in companionable silence, the sounds of evening rising around us—birds settling, insects starting their nightly chorus, the distant bark of someone’s dog. It’s peaceful. Normal.
I’d almost forgotten what normal felt like.
“Can I ask you something?” Mariella says suddenly.
“Depends on the question.”
“That’s fair.” She’s quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “When you came out of the dungeon today, you looked… different. Not just injured. Different. Like something had changed.”
I think about the mana surge. About the magic crackling across my skin for the first time in two hundred years. About the feeling of coming home.
“Something did change,” I say carefully. “I can’t explain it. Not yet. But something’s different now.”
“A good different?”
“I think so. I hope so.”
She nods, accepting this. Not pushing. Giving me space to share when I’m ready.
It’s the opposite of what I’m used to. Persephone always pushed. Always needed to know everything, control everything, be part of everything. At the time I thought it was love.
Now I know better.
“Mariella.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For… all of this. The work, the food, the not asking questions. It means more than you know.”
She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is soft.
“I know what it’s like to need space. To need time to figure out who you are when everything else has fallen apart.” A pause. “Whatever you’re running from, whatever you’re trying to become—I hope you find it. I hope you get whatever it is you’re looking for.”
She’s talking about herself as much as you, Johnson observes. Two runaways, recognizing each other.
“You too,” I say. “Whatever you’re running from. I hope you find what you need.”
She smiles. It’s sad and hopeful and complicated, all at once.
“Maybe we both will.”
The farmhouse is dark when we arrive, the stew cold but still edible, the cottage somehow less oppressive than it was this morning.
Mariella reheats the food over the fire while I clean up as best I can with cold water and determination. Johnson claims his spot by the hearth, curling into a ball of fur and judgment.
We eat in comfortable silence, the crackling fire the only sound.
After, when the bowls are empty and the fire is dying down, Mariella stands.
“I should sleep. Early morning tomorrow—the barn needs more work.”
“I’ll help. After I check the dungeon entrance.”
“Always the dungeon.” She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “Get some rest, Velthar. The world won’t end if you take one night off.”
“The world might end for exactly that reason.”
“Then I’ll blame you. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Mariella.”
She disappears into the corner she’s claimed as her sleeping space, and I’m left alone with Johnson and the dying fire.
You like her, he says.
“She’s a good worker.”
That’s not what I meant and you know it.
I don’t answer. Don’t want to examine the feelings too closely. It’s too soon—too raw, too complicated. I was married for twelve years. I watched my wife hold my hand while I died.
I’m not ready to feel anything for anyone.
You don’t have to be ready, Johnson says, surprisingly gentle. Feelings don’t wait for permission. They just happen.
“That’s terrifying.”
Yes. It is. He stretches, claws extending briefly. But also, potentially, good. If you let it be.
I stare into the embers.
“I don’t know how to let anything be.”
Then learn. You’re good at learning. It’s literally the only thing you’re good at right now.
“Thanks.”
I told you. I’m supportive.
I sit there until the fire dies completely, until the cottage is dark and cold and silent.
Then I go to sleep, and for the second time since I came back, I don’t dream of betrayal.