The sun had fully hoisted itself above the horizon, painting the landscape in a pale light. Malt lay partially submerged and carried by the river’s current, scanning the shore for any sign of Dagridge.

Within minutes he should’ve been brought back into the scarred battlefield that he was strangely accustomed to, but that certainly wasn’t the case.

Instead of trodden dirt, the ground slowly morphed into a thick bed of overgrown grass, teeming with flora of all shapes and sizes. The dense and oppressive evergreen ferns overhead transformed into a mesmerizing canopy of branches and leaves that let in just enough sunlight to bathe the forest scape in a pleasant green glow.

The further he was pushed down the river, the more alien his surroundings became, until eventually he was forced to accept the reality of the situation. The river wouldn’t take him back to Dagridge.

Not in any of his time at the southern front had he seen such lush forest. He hadn’t even experienced this sort of woodland in his long ride from the capital either, and the land of Khodor was largely considered to be a frozen land that was enveloped by snow almost year round.

With that in mind, he surmised that he’d either traveled west or east. Both of which he had little knowledge of.

What he did know, however, was that he was shivering violently in the frigid water.

He ripped himself from the water’s current and waded towards the shore, his overworked muscles screaming all the way. The moment his fingers dug into dry earth, he let out a ragged sigh of relief.

As he hoisted his body out of the river, he was rewarded with the morning sun’s warm rays. He simply laid sprawled out on the riverbed, allowing the warmth to ease his shivering and bring back feeling into his beaten body.

As his blood began circulating again, the soreness of his muscles returned, making every small movement painful. Along the soreness, the dozens of cuts, gashes, and grazes peppering his body began to sting unbearably.

Worst of all were his feet. Now that he had a moment to properly examine them under good light, he cringed in disgust. Every time he moved his foot the needle-like thorns would wiggle around, embedded deep in his flesh. He could practically feel some brush against his bones as he tried to shake them off, much to his horror.

He didn’t have to be a doctor to know that his wounds were likely already infected, or very close to it.

He pried his eyes away from his feet and scanned the area around him. Further inland from the small riverbed lay a small ledge that marked where the gravel ended and the forest began.

The ledge in question was about eye level and made of densely packed dirt reinforced with roots from the trees above. Along it was a single shallow cubby that almost seemed to be carved into dirt.

He crawled over to the cubby, making sure as to not irritate his foot any further. Allowing his back to rest against the cool dirt, he curled up into fetal position.

It was a space just barely deep enough to protect him from the breeze and only large enough to accommodate him given that he was either crouched or sitting. It wasn’t comfortable by any means but it was better than having to brave the biting breeze in the open.

Having made himself as comfortable as he could given his situation, he gave an exasperated sigh as he once again looked downward.

With hesitant fingers, grasped one of the thorns as gently as he could. Before he could decide otherwise, he pulled the needle out as quickly as he could.

A cry of pain erupted from his lips as he clenched his fists and curled his toes in pain. As the hot wave of pain subsided he looked down and immediately cringed, averting his eyes.

The hole, although small, seemed to be absolutely gaping to him. No matter how desensitized life as a soldier made him, injuries on his own body still made him shiver.

He took a few deep breaths and willed himself to grab the next thorn.

This cycle of pain and relief went on for what seemed like an eternity. Sometimes it went well, other times it would result in splinters, blood, and lots and lots of cursing.

After a few agonizing hours, all that remained was a pile of bloodied thorns, a pair of bloody feet, and a thoroughly drained soldier.

With the last thorn finally out of his foot, he went completely limp. At last he allowed every muscle in his body to rest, not that they could’ve gone on much longer even if he wanted them to.

His eyes were clouded with tears of relief and pain, threatening to spill over at any moment. With what remained of his pride he wiped them away, what would the others say if they saw him crying because of a few thorns? What snide remark would Geld make when he saw him in such a pitiful situation?

Although he’d been there just the day before, his memories of Dagridge were already strangely nostalgic.

While lying there, the fatigue that had built up over the last few hectic hours finally caught up to him. As the last of his adrenaline faded, his consciousness quickly failed, granting him some much deserved rest.