Swan stumbled over what looked like a pile of charred remains – an ash-grey suit of armour, scorched and streaked with vivid burn marks, clear evidence of flames that had only recently been extinguished. 

Startled, she stepped back, her breath catching in her throat. She had seen many people teetering on the edge of life, clinging desperately to its fragile thread, but never one who had crossed over completely into death. Her chest tightened and the basket slipped from her hands and tumbled to the ground. 

The morning sun danced over the winding stream, its surface glittering like scattered jewels. The moss glowed a lush green and the evergreen leaves above shimmered in the warm sunlight, sparkling with life.

Her thoughts turned to the recent rainstorm, a three-day storm that had poured as if to swallow the entire valley. It had felt like nature’s wrath, an unstoppable flood. Perhaps this man was one of the remnants of summer, she thought as she released her grip on her chest and cautiously approached.

The figure was half-submerged in the swirling water, his head hanging forward. He was an imposing man, his broad, angular shoulders giving way to strong, defined arms and a firm, unyielding back. His long limbs and tight muscles suggested that he would be difficult to move.

Swan picked up her fallen basket and placed it on a rock before stepping closer to the man. Gently, she turned his shoulder and grabbed one of his long arms, steadying herself as she began to pull him out of the stream.

“Ugh….”

The effort made Swan sweat profusely. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve before turning her attention back to the man.

He was almost otherworldly in the golden morning light. His dark hair framed a face marked by long lashes, sharp cheekbones, a defined jaw and prominent lips. Though streaked with patches of green mud and ash that clung to his skin, his beauty was undeniable.

Swan took a moment to study his chiseled features in the soft sunlight before letting out a strained groan. She bent down and tried to lift him onto her back, but his weight was too much. Gritting her teeth, she began to drag him, inch by inch. Her little grunts echoed around her as she struggled, and finally the man’s head hit a mossy rock with a dull thud.

“Cough.”

“Ah!”

The unexpected noise caused her to stumble backwards and land hard on the floor. She stared wide-eyed at the man she had thought was lifeless. He had coughed – there was no mistaking it. Heart pounding, Swan remained frozen, staring at the figure that had just come to life before her.

The man didn’t regain consciousness immediately, but continued to cough, water spurting from his pale lips. Swan, pushing through her panic, quickly removed his armour to clear his airway. After pressing on his chest and helping him to breathe, he finally expelled the remaining water with a violent cough.

“Hey, can you hear me? Are you awake?”

The realisation hit her like a cold wave – he was alive, a patient in need of care. The horrible thought of what might have happened if she’d buried him or called Old Tom from the valley to burn the body sent shivers down her spine.

The man’s eyelids fluttered. Swan took a steadying breath, forcing herself to remain calm despite her wildly racing heart. She tried to lift him up, her mind racing for solutions. Over the years she had treated many injured people who had come to her for help, but they had all been conscious. This was different.

‘I need to bring him home. He needs treatment.’

But how was she going to move him? The thought of Old Tom crossed her mind again, only to be dismissed just as quickly. Tom was probably wandering around the widow’s house or passed out drunk in the tavern this early in the morning.

She gritted her teeth and tugged at the man’s body with all her strength, but his weight was too much. She tried again to lift him over her shoulder, but apart from managing to grab his arm, there was no way to lift him properly.

Out of breath and frustrated, Swan stopped and stared at the man sprawled on the ground, dragging awkwardly behind her.

“How am I supposed to get you home?”

The silver-grey armour, etched with intricate engravings, caught the summer sunlight and reflected a radiant glow. Swan found her gaze lingering on the designs before she snapped out of her daze and resumed the arduous task of dragging the man back to her home.

***

Swan was a young woman, barely twenty, who radiated vitality and purity, with a freshness that seemed to reflect the lush greenery that surrounded the valley. Unlike the village girls who lived closer to the hustle and bustle of the world, Swan had an air of innocence about her, her manner shy and unassuming.

Her rosy cheeks, soft doe-like eyes and habit of lowering her gaze gave her an endearing and almost unassuming charm. Tom, the old man of the valley, often said that Swan was prettier than all the village girls put together. Although she neither sought nor enjoyed such compliments, she always responded with a polite, quiet smile.

In truth, Swan was a vision of beauty. Her skin seemed to glow with a natural radiance, her delicate ears framed a softly freckled face, and her rosy cheeks perfectly complemented the cascading curls of red-gold hair that fell over her shoulders. Her pale, slender neck, reminiscent of a lily stem, only heightened her ethereal presence. Even the freckles that dotted her nose added to her character rather than detracting from her charm. 

But most captivating of all were her eyes – translucent, jewel-like green, shimmering with the mesmerising brilliance of absinthe. The intoxicating hue, akin to the refined liquor reserved for noble tables, was an extraordinary feature for a girl from such a remote village. Those luminous, haunting eyes were undeniably her most enchanting feature, leaving an indelible impression on anyone who met her gaze.

Most striking of all were her striking, crystal-clear green eyes. Absinthe – a seductive shade, reminiscent of a liquor fit for the hands of nobles. Those two mesmerising eyes were far from what one would expect from a young maiden from a remote countryside. They were her most captivating, yet most mysterious feature. 

Like a witch of the forest… Yes, a witch – that was what they called her. Not just her, but her mother and her grandmother before her. There were rumours of women who raised children without husbands, taking only the “seeds” they chose. Such stories were absurd and ridiculous at best, yet they persisted. 

Were it not for Tom, the village carpenter, who visited her hut every four days to check on her or to bring in patients who desperately needed her care, the villagers might have forgotten Swan altogether. His presence subtly reminded the community of her existence. Without him, she might have lived in total isolation, known only as the witch of the valley. 

Swan stared at the man. Or rather, it would be more accurate to say that she was staring down at him as he lay unconscious on the bed. Even when she grabbed his hair and pulled it in different directions, he didn’t stir. He was completely insensible, completely lost to the world. 

After dragging him into her cabin and laying him down, she leaned against the bedpost to catch her breath. Then, with the practiced ease of routine, she began to gather her dried herbs. 

She considered those that could be used immediately, as well as fresh roots and leaves that could be made into medicine. Once she had a selection in mind, she turned her attention back to him. His armour was difficult to remove, revealing water-soaked clothing that clung stubbornly to his skin. 

Uncertain how to proceed, Swan paused and looked down at the large man stretched out before her. His pale eyelids fluttered as if he might regain consciousness, but then he fell still, as lifeless as before. 

It was not an easy task. Swan wasn’t used to dealing with men – especially from the village at the bottom of the valley, where even a simple greeting could set her off. The only man she had ever spoken to was old Tom, and he was the only person she really knew. 

Should I call him? she wondered. But was it right to leave the injured man behind, not knowing what might happen in her absence? As she agonised over the decision, a reddish mark began to spread along his wet side. At first she thought it was just a spot of blood soaked through by the water, but as it became more noticeable it was clear that wasn’t the case. 

Swan had no choice but to roll up her sleeves. With considerable effort, she removed the armour covering his lower body, grunting as she worked, and carelessly tossed the long sword to the ground. Once she had removed all the armour, the man’s body shivered as his temperature dropped, his face taking on a bluish hue and his jaw trembling uncontrollably. Swan glanced at him warily before lifting the damp cloth clinging to his skin.

“Ah…”

It was a long wound. Blood trickled steadily from the deep cut on his side, the edges of the wound uneven and jagged. Even if it healed, the scar would undoubtedly remain.

Swan used a dry towel to wipe away the blood and took a bottle of antiseptic from her supplies. As the daughter of an apothecary, her cabin was naturally well stocked with various medicines, though her supplies were intended for emergency care only. Depending on how the situation developed, she would need to gather more supplies later. But was it safe to leave this man here?

“Hngh…”

A small moan escaped the man’s lips as the antiseptic-soaked cotton touched his wound. Swan instinctively furrowed her brow but continued, carefully dabbing the cotton around the wound. Then she fumbled for a tranquilliser and gently slid it between his clenched lips. Her hand rested lightly on his cold forehead and she watched as beads of sweat began to form, his skin warming to her touch. 

Rising quickly, Swan prepared for the next step in the treatment of the wound. After disinfecting the area around the wound, she retrieved a surgical needle and thread, ready to begin suturing.

‘It’s best to treat this while he’s still unconscious.’

It was the first time Swan had dealt with a patient with such a deep wound. The only comparable case had been a few years ago, when old Tom had been brought to her after being stabbed in the midday sun for interfering with a widow who already had a lover. Swan swallowed nervously, her hand trembling slightly as she gripped the needle. 

In the secluded valley, where a waterfall cascaded down the cliffs far from the village, the young apothecary’s hands shook with the weight of the task at hand. Her delicate fingers, slick with effort, tightened around the needle. The gaping wound before her, deep and red, oozed blood, dripping steadily onto the floor. 

“Alright… focus.”

The force of her breath caused her chest to rise and fall noticeably as she steadied her hand and pushed the needle into the man’s torn flesh. His long, distinctive eyelashes fluttered slightly in response.

Swan stopped and looked up at him nervously. Her throat tightened as she swallowed.

‘Is he teetering between consciousness and oblivion?’

Her cheeks burned red as she was momentarily captivated by the man’s ethereal beauty, so striking that she felt slightly dazed.

‘Pull yourself together.’

She quickly looked away, concentrating on the task at hand. Fortunately, he remained unconscious as she worked.

Once the stitches were done, Swan gently applied ointment to the wound and carefully wrapped it in bandages. Stepping back, she allowed her eyes to sweep over him once more. The scattered pieces of his discarded armour on the floor and the tall, imposing figure lying on her bed created an almost surreal scene.

A wound like his would normally cause a fever, as if the body were being consumed by flames. But the man’s temperature had risen only briefly before dropping, leaving him in an unexpectedly calm state. Swan couldn’t decide whether to feel relieved or unsettled as she watched him, her thoughts lingering on the mystery he presented.

He must have clung to life with every last ounce of strength. She raised her hand and gently examined his chest and abdomen, now free of the metal armour. When she had removed the pieces earlier, she had caught a glimpse of his body – a sculpture of stone, every muscle intricately sculpted, a masterpiece of strength and design.

Her slightly flushed nose twitched as her fingers brushed along the well-defined ridges of his abs, tracing faint scars that marked his skin like old battle wounds. His firm chest, far stronger than a maiden’s, his smooth, broad shoulders, the clean lines of his Adam’s apple and the masculine curves of his collarbones all seemed to emanate a subtle, intoxicating scent.

Her heart pounded in her chest.

‘This is not the time for such thoughts.’

She scolded herself, shaking her head to dispel the inappropriate feelings creeping into her mind. Swan stood up quickly, forcing himself to concentrate. The sedative she had given him seemed to be working, as his pulse had stabilised noticeably.

She began to collect the scattered pieces of his armour, glancing at him occasionally as she worked. The longsword that probably hung at his waist and the crimson cloak were clear signs of his status, but they revealed little of his identity. He was undoubtedly a knight of some noble house.

Given the recent frequency of wars, she could only speculate as to which family he served. But it didn’t matter – someone of his rank would be far beyond the reach of someone like Swan. With a resigned sigh, she gathered the pieces of armour in her arms and stepped out of the cabin, her head bowed.

“…Ilion… Ilion!”

A fiery projectile descended like a shooting star, leaving a trail of smoke as it crashed to the ground. Launched from a catapult, it must have been filled with gunpowder, for it exploded on impact, tearing through soldiers who had no time to flee. From his saddle, reins in hand, he watched in silence as the soldiers writhed in agony, their torsos severed, before quickly slitting the throat of an approaching enemy with his blade.

As he blinked reflexively and stifled a groan, the scene shifted. No longer surrounded by the fortress walls, he found himself in the middle of a skirmish in the swamps. Once again, he watched as soldiers perished.

The severed wrist of a young soldier spurted blood like a fountain. He watched in silence, his expression unmoving. Swinging his long, lever-like sword, he pushed forward, cutting his way through the chaos. And then, abruptly, his vision went dark.

When his senses returned, he found himself clinging to a cliff. Somehow this moment – clinging to a jagged rock, gasping for air – felt far more unbearable than any battle he had ever fought. Pain shot through his side where it had been scraped raw, and his consciousness, fraying like an old tattered cloth, teetered on the brink of oblivion.

Through the haze he looked up at the knight standing over him. The knight’s lips, pale and thin in the shadow of his helmet, twisted into a cruel smile as he raised his blade. The sharp point glinted in the dim light, ready to strike. It was clear that the knight intended to sever the hand that clung desperately to the rock.

The sword descended, falling with deadly precision. The hand he had clung to desperately gave way. Before he could regain his senses, he caught a fleeting glimpse of his blood-soaked hand against the backdrop of the blue sky.

The gauntleted hand was already drenched in blood. He closed his eyes. In the fading fragments of reality – where everything seemed to shatter or melt away – nothing remained solid enough to hold on to. Names, status, rank, wealth. Parents and comrades. Even as he fell endlessly into the abyss, there was not a single shard left to grasp.

Thud.

He opened his eyes. Blood pooled beneath him, forming a crimson pool. The vivid sensation of finding strange comfort in that warmth remained, as if it had just happened. Like a fish pulled from the water, he jerked upwards in alarm.

“Ugh!”

Pain flared in his side. His mouth fell open as he clutched his waist, his torso folding in half. Cold sweat trickled down his face as his vision blurred. He gasped, struggling to steady his ragged breathing.

“P-please, don’t move like that!”

A sharp yet soft voice rang out, its tone carrying an unexpected authority. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to look ahead. Outside the house, with its round windows, the sunlight filtered softly, casting a warm glow on the threshold where the woman’s voice had come from. He stared at her with a slightly dazed expression.

“I said, don’t move!”

The woman, clutching a piece of laundry in her hands, hurriedly threw open the rattling window. Her face was full of urgency as she shouted, her exaggerated gestures and the way she craned her neck to stop him might have been comical in other circumstances, but there was no laughter.

“And take your hand off your side, too!”

Her flapping arms and frantic voice were almost overwhelming. Startled, he released his grip on his side He stared at her blankly. The woman, still staring intently through the open window, suddenly slammed it shut with a loud bang. Moments later, she appeared at the door, stepping inside with damp laundry in her arms.

“Oh, really! You shouldn’t sit like that…”

Like a nervous hen, she rushed to his side, hands outstretched. Instinctively, he slapped her hand away, his body tensing in defence. The woman froze, her movement stopped. Her face, which moments before had held a faint smile, turned pale as her hand hovered in the air.

His dry lips parted slightly as he watched her. The hand she had reached out to inspect his wound was quickly withdrawn. Awkward and uncertain, the woman hesitated, lowering herself slightly and blinking a few times.

“Your wound…”

“……”

“I need to see if it’s reopened.”

Her voice, now soft and timid, was a stark contrast to her former assertiveness. He stared at her for a moment, then gave a slight nod. Gently, she lifted his shirt and began to remove the bandages to check the wound. Her practiced movements suggested that she had done this many times before. He briefly touched the shirt he was wearing, then looked down to watch her inspect his side.

The woman had the unmistakably youthful face of a maiden, with her curly red hair tied tightly. Light freckles dotted her nose, long lashes framed her unusual green eyes, and her full lips and delicate jaw line gave her a striking, if slightly mischievous, appearance. Yet the softened expression on her face made her seem more shy than bold.

“The wound is slightly open, but as long as you’re careful, it should heal fine.”

“……”

“Don’t move from the bed for now.

With that, the woman got up and fetched fresh bandages and antiseptic. He silently allowed her to tend to him again. Her hands worked quickly and precisely as she disinfected the wound, applied ointment and carefully bandaged it again.

“Um…”

Her voice, hesitant and uncertain, broke the silence as she fidgeted slightly. He remained silent, his gaze fixed on her. The dull pain in his head made him want to lie down again, but instead he gave her an annoyed look, encouraging her to continue.

“Do you… have any messages you want to pass on?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“……”

“Then is there anything unpleasant… or something you’d like?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

He watched her as she continued to fidget, unsure of what to do next. After a brief pause, she bowed her head deeply and began to retreat with hesitant, backward steps. When she was gone, he lay back down on the bed.

Though he had only glanced around, the furnishings of the room made it clear that this was the home of someone who lived alone. Everywhere he looked, objects had been arranged and cared for by a single pair of hands. The well-worn items undoubtedly belonged to her. Judging from the surroundings, she must live alone, perhaps running a small apothecary.

The scent of herbs hung heavily in the air. He continued to scan the room, piecing together an image of the woman as he drifted back to sleep.

An apothecary. A maiden. A secluded cabin. Wavy red hair. Freckles… a freckled maiden.

***

When the man woke up, it was noon, the day after his bandages had been changed. His recovery was astonishingly fast; by midday he was able to get out of bed and move around. A typical patient would have taken at least three or four more days to reach this stage.