Wounded

As dawn broke and light crept into the room, Argon awoke. Despite the healing artefact's efforts, he still felt like he'd been trampled by a herd of wild boars. The deep wound in his side was a gnawing reminder of the fierce battle they had fought. His body felt heavy and sluggish, but he was alive, and that was something.

In a chair next to the bed, Brolan was sound asleep. His snores filled the room, an oddly comforting sound amidst the turmoil. Like a loyal hound, Brolan never strayed far from his master's side. Argon felt a surge of gratitude towards his stalwart comrade. Despite the hardships, Brolan had stayed by his side, a rock amidst the raging storm.

Summoning the last bits of his strength, Argon nudged Brolan awake. "Let's get the fuck out of here," he rasped out. The time had come to leave this place behind and head home to Blackwood. A place where they could regroup, recuperate, and prepare for the battles that lay ahead.

Brolan rubbed the sleep from his eyes and nodded at Argon's words. "I gave the attribute artefact to Aldric," he reported, "I still have all three from Ser Bornmowe."

Argon grunted in response, his mind already working on the next steps. "Take the shield and the healing ones, complete your set and give me the extra attribute one," he instructed.

Brolan blinked at him in confusion. "But how do you tell which is which?" he asked, his gaze shifting to the trio of artefacts.

Argon shrugged, his features twisting into a grimace of pain. "Fuck if I know," he muttered. "Go ask Aldric."

And with that, Brolan was off to seek Aldric's assistance, leaving Argon alone once more. Despite the situation, a hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of Argon's lips. At least Brolan was getting a chance to increase his own capabilities. It was a small victory, but every bit counted in the grand scheme of things.

While relieved that Brolan now had a full set of Dayless and all the artefacts, Argon couldn't help but worry. Would Brolan become as strong as him? His comrade was skilled, no doubt, but Argon wasn't quite ready to have his leadership threatened.

His mind started to whir with plans. He needed to step up his game; he needed to obtain a medium-grade artefact. But obtaining such a valuable and rare item was no easy task. He had no leads, no idea where to start.

It was a puzzle, a challenge, but Argon was no stranger to such things. He would figure it out; he always did. But for now, he needed to focus on his recovery and preparing for the journey back to Blackwood.

Brolan came back saying the artefacts, while all are radiating a distinct white glow, vary in intensity. The healing artefact has the faintest glow, a subtle shimmer that belies its significant power. The attribute artefact shines with a moderate glow, marking it as more potent than the healing artefact. Meanwhile, the shield artefact glows the brightest, its strong luminescence indicative of its robust protective capabilities.

Even in his pain, Argon's determination shone through. "Enough," he snapped, irritation sharpening his words. "Let's get the fuck out of Goldenfeild." Brolan, accustomed to his master's temperament, silently assisted Argon to his feet. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain coursing through Argon, causing him to wince visibly.

Slowly, they made their way outside, their progress hindered by Argon's injury. But once they emerged, it was clear that Edrik had not been idle. A convoy was waiting for them, a testament to the man's organisational skills. Among the group were around ten women and twenty male slaves tied up as a result of their recent raid. Brolan's horse was tethered to a cart filled with chests, undoubtedly carrying their share of the loot and the coveted Dayless armour.

With care, Brolan secured Argon to the back of the remaining horse using a length of rope. The horse snorted, shifting restlessly under the unusual weight.

As they set off, the gates of Goldenfeild closed behind them, but not before Ser Aldric's voice echoed out, his thanks clear and heartfelt. The cheering of the Goldenfeild citizens followed them, a resounding salute to their bravery. Despite the pain and hardship, Argon couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. They had won, and they were returning home. And, for now, that was enough.

The journey back to Blackwood was an arduous one. The days blurred into a monotonous pattern of discomfort and monotony. The route seemed to stretch on forever, given their slow pace and Argon's debilitating pain.

Each day, the sun rose and set, casting long shadows across the sparse landscape. The convoy moved slowly, guided by the faint path that wound its way through the wild lands. The slaves were silent, their eyes full of uncertainty and fear. Brolan rode at the front, keeping a vigilant eye out for potential dangers.

Argon, bound to his horse, found the journey a test of his resolve. The constant jostling and bouncing on horseback worsened his pain, each movement sending a lance of agony through his side. His healing artefact, although powerful, was able to do little more than offer him an hour of relief each day. For that one precious hour, the pain would recede, a small island of comfort in a sea of torment.

Despite the physical discomfort, Argon forced himself to stay alert, to stay involved. He listened to the report of the scouts, kept a watchful eye on the slaves, and occasionally shared a word or two with Brolan.

At night, when they made camp, Argon would lie awake, staring at the canopy of stars above. The pain would keep him from falling asleep immediately, his mind instead filled with plans for Blackwood, for his men, and for the elusive medium-grade artefact he so desperately needed.

It was a test of endurance, a challenge that Argon met head-on. As the days turned into nights and then back into days, they inched closer to Blackwood, to home. The thought of home, of his own bed, was the beacon that kept him going.

Finally, after days of enduring the hardships of travel, they reached the familiar sight of Blackwood. A wave of relief washed over Argon as the gates opened to welcome them. Brolan, ever the loyal servant, helped Argon dismount and assisted him up to his room.

For the following days, Argon was confined to his quarters, his pain still too great to permit much activity. Brolan served as his lifeline during this time, dutifully bringing him food and drink and anything else he required. Each day, the agony lessened incrementally, but it was slow progress.

One day, as the sun was beginning its descent, the door to Argon's room burst open to reveal Saera, her cheeks streaked with tears. She stormed into the room, a whirlwind of emotion. "How could you!" she cried, her voice trembling with indignation. "Your men wouldn't let me up! And you left without saying goodbye!"

Argon, taken aback by her sudden appearance and the torrent of her words, tried to pacify her. "Woman, does it look like now is a good time to nag me?" He shot back, wincing as the exertion shot a spike of pain through him. "I'll kill you..."

Saera, who had been mid-rant, stopped abruptly, her eyes wide with shock. But then Argon chuckled softly, the sound rough from disuse. "I'm just messing with you," he admitted, a ghost of his usual smirk playing on his lips. "I'm touched by your emotions for me."

Saera's expression softened, her tears giving way to a relieved smile. She took a step closer to him, reaching out to gingerly touch his arm as if reassuring herself he was indeed alive and here.

Saera's voice wavered as she murmured, "What if you'd died? I'd be all alone." Her eyes, glossy with unshed tears, searched his face.

"Stop," Argon grumbled, rolling his eyes, "You'd replace me in a week."

Saera burst into fresh tears, her small fists clenching at her sides. "You heartless brute! You don't care about me!"

"I do care," Argon retorted, softening his tone slightly. "That's why I killed the other knight before he could kill me."

Just then, the door creaked open again, and Lyra appeared, her countenance composed and her gaze steady. "Thank you, my lord, for not taking Eldrin," she said, her voice steady but filled with gratitude. "I saw the casualties... No doubt my son would have died."

Saera turned on her with a venomous glare. "Shut up, bitch! Our master is in great pain and you bring up a traitor's son. Shame on you!" Her words echoed through the room, her hostility towards Lyra clear and unyielding.

Lyra retaliated, her voice holding an edge, "Shut up, Saera. Everyone knows you're using our lord to boss the others around."

Saera huffed in response, her cheeks flushing with anger. Before their bickering could escalate any further, Argon interjected, "Ladies, ladies, can you not fight? Just...please me."

Saera's eyes lit up at the suggestion, and she swiftly moved her hand towards his waist. But Argon quickly halted her, "No, no... I'm in too much pain. Every bit of movement kills me. Just sing, feed me, and redress my wound."

With a sigh, Saera retreated her hand while Lyra set to work. The soothing melody of Saera's voice began to fill the room as she started to sing. Her voice, soft and harmonious, seemed to envelop the space in a comforting blanket. It was a simple song, one of lost love and hopeful renewal, a tune often sung during times of healing.

Meanwhile, Lyra brought over a tray filled with a simple meal. She had brought soup, a chunk of fresh bread, and some meat. She started to feed Argon, who gratefully accepted the food, the rich flavours a welcome distraction from the pain.

Finally, once the meal was finished, Lyra moved to redress Argon's wound. She removed the old bandages, her hands steady as they revealed the ugly gash that was still healing. She gently cleaned the wound with a warm cloth, and her brows furrowed in concentration.

Argon's wound, located under his left armpit, was a vicious sight. The blade had penetrated deep, leaving a nasty gash that bore testament to the brutal encounter with the Dayless knight. The edges of the wound were jagged and inflamed, a vivid red against his pale skin.

The wound had been sewn together by the skilled hands of the doctor. It was a rather crude job, the black sutures stark against the raw, damaged skin. But it had been effective, keeping the wound closed and aiding in the healing process.

Despite the healing artefact's constant work, the wound was still in the early stages of healing. The flesh was tender and bruised, a deep purple hue surrounding the sutured area. Every movement caused the wound to throb in protest, a constant reminder of the damage sustained. Pus and blood still oozed out occasionally, kept at bay by the constant change of bandages.

Although it was a gruesome sight, the progress was evident. The inflammation had reduced over the past few days, and the searing pain had lessened to a dull ache. But Argon was still far from fully healed; his body was putting up a strong fight, but the journey to recovery was still a long one.

Argon winced at the pain but stayed quiet, not wanting to interrupt Saera's singing. Once the wound was cleaned, Lyra applied a fresh layer of poultice before securing the new bandage in place.

Throughout it all, Argon remained still, enduring the discomfort. The combination of Saera's soothing voice and Lyra's gentle touch made the process bearable, reminding him that, despite the pain, he was not alone.

Argon gestured for them to remain by his bedside, "Stay here. Get Brolan to fetch Melvin."

Lyra leaned over the edge of the loft, shouting downstairs for Brolan to fetch Melvin. This act of disrespect towards Brolan irked Argon. He rebuked Lyra sharply, "Do not order Brolan around as if he's your lackey. Show some respect."

Lyra flinched, nodding her understanding, but the glare from Saera made it clear that this admonishment would not be forgotten.

Once the tension in the room had diffused somewhat, the ladies gingerly climbed onto the bed, settling down on either side of Argon. They filled a basin with warm water and added a bit of fragrant soap, turning the water into a frothy white mixture. Gently, they began to wash his body, their soft hands running over his skin with the warm, soapy water.

They were careful around his wound, trying not to cause him any discomfort. Their ministrations, although gentle, sent waves of relief through Argon's body. The warmth of the water, combined with their soothing touch, helped alleviate some of his pain, allowing him to relax slightly under their care.