The first sensation to return to Liam was the smell of herbs and linen, a stark contrast to the ash and iron scent that he remembered before passing out. Slowly, he opened his eyes, the blue skies above him, and birds flying. He was moving, he recognized.
He turned his head. He was in the middle of a rudimentary straw bed. He tried sitting up, but pain shot from his ribs, rendering him immobile. He raised his hand slowly, guiding it to his chest, a dry bandage was tightly wrapped around it, probably to help keep his bones locked in place as they mended. Who did this he tried recalling.
His conversation with the silver-haired woman echoed in his mind, a dream that was far to real-no, he had come to accept it as not a dream. She spoke of a weapon, nullification, no choice. His head started aching, and he ceased those thoughts. He brought up his hand to his face staring at it. It was covered in calluses, from work in the village.
