—— ? ——

  Simon snapped his eyes wide as he came to full awareness.

  Oh god, what in the hell happened? Ughhh

  He groaned inwardly, taking stock of his surroundings. The room was quiet, save for the soft crackling of a fire. The pleasant scent of burning pine hung in the air.

  It was a fairly large room, several beds like the one he lay in lined one wall, while across the room, a cluster of strange materials covered a series of desks. A stone pestle and mortar sat among glass vials, beakers, and various chemistry-looking tools. Some bubbled faintly. Others sat empty and dry.

  As Simon tried to move his neck, sharp pricks raced across body. His skin felt leathery and hot. The pain was nowhere close to what he remembered from his delirium, but it wasn’t a comfortable feeling. At one end of the room, a large window dominated the wall, its glass fogged white against the frozen world beyond. On either side were thick dark curtains that were drawn back to let in the faded light from outside. Opposite that, a thick wooden door reinforced with dark iron hinges gave the place a distinctly medieval feel.

  Simon had no memory of how he’d ended up here.

  At least it’s warm… and smells decent. Distinct lack of horrid bunnies means I’m giving it at least a four star review.

  He glanced down at the white sheets that covered him, flecked with spots of red.

  Carefully, he wiggled his fingers and toes, running doing a mental checklist of his body’s condition. Miraculously, all digits remained intact. That was great news. There had been far too many close calls. He clearly remembered lashing his ring finger to his palm after it had been bitten to the bone.

  With careful movements he moved his left arm to remove the sheets that covered him. Sore and painful, but it was the arm with the least amount of damage. His arm emerged from the sheets covered in bandages. Most were still white but several of the worse off wounds had clearly marked the clean cloth.

  His lower body looked the same. Bandages covered him from head to toe.

  I would make a pretty good mummy. Watch out, Brendan Fraser. Simon the Mummy is coming for you.

  The brief effort left him drained. He let his head sink back into the pillow, exhausted from even that small movement.

  Now if there was only someone to explain what the hell is going on…

  That was his last thought before his eyes drifted shut once more.

  —— ? ——

  The soft sound of liquid pouring, glass clinking lighting against stone, pulled Simon from his exhausted slumber.

  His eyes fluttered open to see an older man moving about at one of the work tables. The man looked to be in his late sixties, thin and wiry, with stringy white hair. He wore muted woolen clothes in shades of gray.

  The man was busy with the various instruments, mid-process in transferring one of the bubbling liquids into a large metal pot. Simon watched quietly as he worked, observing the practiced movements.

  After finishing the pour, the man rifled through a set of small wooden drawers, retrieved something, and returned to the pot. He added a few more ingredients, then picked up a dark wooden rod and began to stir.

  Simon blinked in surprise as a faint blue energy curled from the man’s fingers, twining around the rod as he worked.

  Yeah… that’s not chemistry.

  He watched as the blue energy continued to flow down the rod with each slow stir. A faint scent wafted through the air, something between sage and strawberries.

  After several more minutes, the man gave a small nod of satisfaction and set a large metallic lid over the bubbling pot.

  He had been fully absorbed in his work, seemingly unaware of his silent audience.

  As he began tidying the table, methodically storing away the various tools and ingredients, his gaze finally flicked toward Simon.

  His eyebrows lifted and his lips gave a small grin.

  “Ah... I see the traveler has returned to us from the land of dreams. For future reference, beast pelts work much better if they’re skinned and tanned first.”

  The man paused, stroking his chin.

  “Who knows... you may have started a whole new fashion trend here in Varnholt.”

  “Oh yeah... it’s a timeless fashion. Really sticks with you,” Simon replied, his voice raw and scratchy.

  The man chuckled and grabbed a small stool from his work area, pulling it over and sitting at the foot of Simon’s bed, within easy view of his patient.

  “It certainly does. You’re one of the worst cases I’ve seen during my time in Varnholt. Now... Do you have a name? Or shall I just call you Bunnyclad? Pelt Pioneer? There are so many... interesting options to choose from.”

  “Ugh, no thanks. Just call me Simon.”

  “Well Simon, It is a pleasure to meet you. Though… I would have preferred different circumstances. But such is the nature of my work. I tend to meet the most interesting people… on their worst days.”

  The man gave a small smile.

  “People here call me Priest Marden. Mar, if they’re feeling friendly… or a few other nicknames, depending on how quickly their ailments pass.”

  Simon stiffened at the name, but quickly tried to cover it with a fake cough.

  Unfortunately, the cough turned from act to reality and pain flared across his chest.

  As he coughed, Marden moved quickly and smoothly. Before Simon realized it the man was holding a vial to his lips.

  “Here, drink this,” he said, jiggling the vial, a viscous quivering red liquid, just below Simon’s nose.

  Simon eyed the potion warily, then shifted his gaze up to meet the priest’s.

  “Wh.. what is it?” he rasped out.

  Marden gave a faint shake of his head.

  “A potion of healing, Simon. This is a place of healing. I have sworn only to aid those beneath its roof.”

  Simon carefully watched the priest in front of him.

  Goddamnit, me... this guy’s the only reason you’re alive. If he wanted you dead, he could’ve just... not helped.

  With that thought, Simon gave a small nod and opened his mouth.

  Marden gently tipped the vial, pouring its contents in.

  Simon immediately scrunched his face, shaking his head slightly.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Ugh... it tastes exactly how it smells... but stronger... and burnt. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but... why?”

  Marden gave a quiet chuckle as he returned to his seat.

  “I’ll have you know, the flavor has improved quite a bit over the last month. I do agree... It's still awful. When I changed my source ingredients, I had hoped it would at least take the bitterness away.”

  “Well, it’s not bitter anymore. Ugh... it just feels like sticky slime on the sides of my throat.”

  Marden shrugged.

  “Unfortunate side effect for you. Though... quite effective. You’d be surprised how many in this town turn up with throat injuries. Many of the new materials our townsfolk have been experimenting with have a nasty habit of exploding, or releasing noxious fumes."

  Marden said, shaking his head.

  "All for the sake of advancing their craft”

  “Well.. Thank you. I cannot imagine what would have happened to me if I hadn’t made it here.”

  Simon let his body sink deeper into the bed as he closed his eyes.

  The potion was in no small words, amazing.

  A soothing warmth spread through his chest first, dulling the sharp ache left by the cough. Like a wave, it flowed outward — from his core to every limb. The constant fiery itch beneath his skin began to cool and fade. Tight, aching muscles slowly released, soreness lifting with each passing second.

  Within a minute the pain was an echo of itself

  “Damn, Marden…. That is actually amazing. What the hell is in that?” Simon asked, voice clear

  The fog in his head, one he hadn’t even realized was there, lifted. Energy rippled through him, leaving him far more awake than before.

  Marden gave him a warm smile, folding his hands loosely in his lap.

  “A touch of alchemy... a touch of faith. I serve Istra, the Goddess of Living Records. The body remembers, and with her blessing, that memory becomes the guide. The potion gives the body what it needs... she reminds it what it was.”

  Simon let out a slow breath.

  “That’s one hell of a trick.”

  He shifted slightly under the blankets, testing his limbs. Some aches still lingered deep in his joints, but compared to the state he was in moments before, it was fantastic.

  “Feels like.. I could stand… almost.”

  He chuckled to himself then looked at the priest seriously.

  “Wait, why didn’t you give that potion to me when I was sleeping?”

  Marden let out a heavy sigh.

  “While the Goddess’s miracle has fantastical qualities... it has limits. Unfortunately, it requires the patient to willingly consume it. The magic calls upon your body’s memory and that memory must be willing.”

  He shook his head.

  “Up until now, I only kept a few standard potions in stock. The ones with divine infusion are much more effective, and, oddly enough, significantly cheaper. But I’ve seen my error in that respect.”

  A faint smile touched his lips.

  “I had to use all of them... while removing your particular pioneering fashion.”

  Simon groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

  “Ugh... yeah. Sorry about that. Desperate times... and those damn things just kept coming.”

  He let out a rough breath.

  “I can barely remember that walk. It got to a point where all I could do was just... keep attaching them... just... more... more... MORE...”

  Simon shook his head, trying to snap himself out of the strange cadence he’d fallen into. He gave a weak smile to the concerned priest.

  “Uh... sorry... yeah, I wasn’t in a great mental state.”

  He shook his head, then frowned in frustration.

  “If that stupid, shitty skill actually summoned literally anything useful — kazoos, maracas, harmonicas... or freaking finger cymbals!”

  Marden tilted his head slightly, one brow lifting.

  “...What skill?”

  There was no judgment in the word, just curiosity.

  Simon let out a long, low groan.

  “Ugh... yeah. Stupid skill. It’s called, "Summon Instrument.”

  He rubbed a hand down his face.

  “Random instrument. No control. No guarantee it’s useful. And the things it gives me? Ugh... let’s just say none of them are exactly combat-ready.”

  He exhaled.

  “Here. I’ll show you.”

  Simon reached inside, summoning the skill as he had so many times before...

  That same strange sensation rose within him, like a pulse deep in his chest, spreading outward.

  He held his hand over the side of the bed and guided the energy to it.

  A sharp pop split the air.

  Followed by a loud CLANG as something massive materialized in his grip... and immediately dropped to the floor with a crash as its weight yanked it from his hands.

  Simon stared at the mocking shining surface of the massive instrument.

  “Oh, come on, man...” he muttered, as the tuba all but laughed at him in its sheer enormity.

  “WHY ARE YOU APPEARING NOW?!” Simon suddenly shouted, glaring at the brass monstrosity.

  Marden studied the absurd instrument now sprawled across the floor. A faint smile touched his lips.

  “I take it this musical companion missed your dress rehearsal?”

  Simon groaned and let his head fall back against the pillow.

  “It would have been... so... much... easier... I got... finger cymbals, Marden. FINGER CYMBALS!”

  Marden tilted his head slightly, expression thoughtful.

  “I... confess I’m not entirely certain what those are. Something smaller, perhaps? Or...?”

  Without lifting his head from the pillow, Simon raised one hand, thumb and forefinger held an inch apart in a tiny gap.

  He tapped them together several times.

  “They’re played like this.”

  “Oh” Marden replied “Not a... formidable choice for battle.”

  He paused, thoughtful.

  “Perhaps you could... um... no...” He shook his head. “No, I cannot imagine any way those could be useful. That’s awful. I’m sorry, my dear friend.”

  Simon sighed again, then pushed himself upright. He shot a nasty look at the shining brass traitor, then turned his attention back to the kind priest.

  “So... earlier you said this is Varnholt, so I guess I made it. But... How long was I out?”

  Marden tapped his folded hands.

  “Three days,” he said. “You’ve been here under my care since you were carried through the gate. The wounds were... extensive. And given the state you arrived in, well, no one expected you to be talking anytime soon.

  He gave a small, reassuring smile.

  “The council is... quite eager to hear your story. There’s been no shortage of speculation on who you are, where you are from, and how you ended up outside our gates.”

  Marden’s expression turned a little more measured.

  “I was told that, once you’re well enough to stand, I’m to summon an escort. They’ll take you to the hub, and then the council hall.”

  Simon squinted his eyes at the priest in suspicion.

  “Why would I need to go to this… hub?”

  Marden raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Well... when you finish the Foundations of the Universe quest and touch the hub.. your initial garments are replaced. No one keeps their arrival clothes”

  Simon blinked.

  “Oh… so it's pretty obvious I haven’t done that yet.”

  “..Quite” Marden said with a nod.

  Simon let out a small breath.

  “All right, doc, you tell me. When should I be able to stand?”

  “In an hour or so,” Marden said. “We’ll give the potion — and the blessing — time to finish its work. Let everything knit properly.”

  He offered a small, warm smile.

  “And then, you’ll be on your way. While I do try to keep this place comfortable... I make it a policy to boot out anyone who’s healed.”

  “Fair enough, can’t overstay free healthcare,” Simon said with a chuckle... then paused.

  “It is free... right?”

  Marden smiled gently.

  “My Goddess is one of Living Records, Simon... not charity.”

  —— ? ——

  An hour later, Marden stood by the tall window at the far end of the care hall.

  Snowflakes drifted lazily outside, the storm having long passed.

  Through the rippled glass, he watched the traveler named Simon step slowly down the street. Alongside him the young town guard, Brenn, walked along, peppering him with questions, which seemed to be getting very short answers

  Not that the young man seemed to mind. Any answer from the stranger would surely be spun into sweet gossip over drinks later that night.

  Marden let the curtain fall back into place and turned toward his small writing desk.

  His steps carried him to the far end of the room, past the now-cooled potion pot, to the long work table where countless vials, tools, and scrolls were neatly arranged.

  With a quiet motion, he reached beneath the edge of the table and pressed a small, hidden catch.

  A soft click sounded.

  One section of the wall behind the table shifted slightly, a narrow seam appearing where none should be. Marden pushed gently, and a slender door swung inward.

  He stepped through into the calm of his private chambers.

  It was a modest space, spare and orderly. Against one wall stood a simple altar of pale stone, a blank prayer book laid open upon it. Its pages gleamed faintly, untouched.

  Waiting.

  Marden moved to it without hesitation. He selected a fine quill from its holder and uncorked a small vial of red ink.

  “It seems,” he murmured softly, “that a report is in order.”

  The quill began to move.

  Naturally,

  the Goddess of Living Records would expect nothing less.

  —— ? ——

  — AUTHOR NOTICE —

  > Thanks for reading everyone!

  Food poisoning is the worst.

  Here I thought I could eat a poke bowl from a grocery store... yeah not my brightest idea yet, but we all make choices.

  Enjoy the chapter.

  ~TheBusyBard

  Harmony is offered. Growth is earned. Limits are unknown.

  ——————————