"I'm sorry, we've been behind." A young woman, hair brunette and long, dress bleached and patchworked, says to the child at the door.

"You don't have any netting at all?" Timo asks incredulously.

"We've gotten swamped, and one of our weavers has fallen ill. I'm sorry."

He crosses his arms, deep in thought. "We really need it for deliveries, but they won't go out until tomorrow." He looks behind, then at the sky, then back at the doorframe of the cottage. "Can I make it myself?"

"Yes...if it's not any trouble for you." She steps aside to make room at the entryway.

"I have nothing better to do anyways."

They walk through the dusty house, soft footsteps being absorbed, spools the height of horses guarding the room. Who knows how many miles of string are kept here, how plow rope conveys enduring toughness, and cotton thread the comforts of childhood. With all the dried plant matter contained here, a pungent odor like parched hay pierces the nose. Off to the side, smaller spools of prismatic colors and gentler textures stack amongst each other, overlayed like organ pipes.

"Most of the yarn is wool," the woman says, "but there are some horsehair ones too." Just a few years senior to Timo, she tries to connect the random tangents to something relatable. "The weaponsmiths request horsehair for spear tassels." She fingers through a bed of red-dyed hairs.

"That's neat."

They step outside onto the porch, where several women are sitting in a circle, weaving something. Off to the side, a bundle of netting lays untinkered. Attached to a net-in-progress is a large, pointed instrument: canoe-shaped, with a prong in the middle. The woman asks, "Do you know how to use a netting needle?"

Timo gazes at the interesting device. "No. I was going to tie one by hand."

She hums as she picks out a clean spool of sisal. "Here." She points to a basket. "The other tools are in there."

Timo leans against the rails, measures out the lengths, and taking a knife from the toolbasket, he cuts the string. The lady watches him for several minutes to make sure he knows what he's doing. She finds it strangely endearing. "Who taught you how to tie a net?"

Unenthused, he says, "My mother," twiddling knots into swathes of alternating patterns.

The answer so obvious, she chuckles. "I wouldn't expect young boys to know such things."

"You shouldn't expect things from anyone."

The lady keeps her composure, holding back a wince from the prickly response. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Just let me know when you're done so I can assess how much the butchers owe us."

As he works on making nets for transporting large chunks of dry meat, he relaxes. Some of the women gossip about boring things, and some of them make side glances at him, which frays him, but he focuses on tying knots, until the bad feelings pass.

When he's completed two nets, Timo gathers them up and bids the weavers farewell. He returns to the butchery.

After reporting his extended errand, and redeeming his nets, Timo joins Wiry-Monkey who smokes jerky over the charcoal fire. Fanning the heat and absorbing the savory essence, Timo asks, "What flavors will these have? Apple honey?"

Wiry-Monkey chuckles. "Again with the sweets? If you crave them so bad, go chase some bees." Crouching, he scooches at an angle to poke the fire with a log. "These are rubbed with Vulcano sauce." He keeps swallowing saliva.

Before long, Kazerus makes the rounds and locks up the butchery, a watchful Timo waiting for him. As they make the trip to his cabin, Timo notices Kazerus's palm poking out of his sleeve, clean gauze wrapped around it.

"Did something happen to your hand?"

Kazerus hesitates and gives a big, cheeky smile. "It's fine."

Timo crests his eyebrows. "Roll up your sleeve."

Kazerus sighs. The youngster becomes awfully demanding in an instant. He trifles with the sleeve, the bandage following a thin stripe of mottled blood up to his elbow. "I rushed too fast, and when I lifted something heavy, it kind of...reopened. It just needs more rest."

Though Kazerus drops his arm, letting it swing with the rhythm of walking, Timo fixates on it like an owl.

Wait a fucking minute.

"Don't worry about it. I'll be careful until it's completely healed."

If Timo can't even fix Kazerus's scratch, there’s no way he could’ve healed a sprained ankle.

Timo stays silent for the rest of the trip and as they enter the cabin. He mindlessly helps to set up the table and mats, a shrine to their evening routine. Finally, he says, "I'm getting a rag."

Kazerus sits cross-legged and lets the doctor examine his arm. Timo unwinds the dressing, revealing scabs and discoloration flagging along the gash. He wipes it down. It's not as wide as before, but it doesn't help with his distress.

The ankle was bruising and swelling, so maybe he's overthinking yesterday. He's too inexperienced to tell with certainty.

No, no, no! The witchhunter faked his sprain.

Timo chose to heal him because it would be a valuable learning experience. Yet as he mucked about, something felt off. However, he was tired and hangry, he didn't pay close attention, and he wanted to get it over with.

Scorpion knew about Timo’s healing beforehand. Were the intel gathering abilities of The Scorpion underestimated? Did one of the butchers let loose? An unpleasant knot forms in his stomach. Well, it doesn't matter what Timo thinks, or how Scorpion knows. What matters is that the witchhunter is on to him.

Timo's face had darkened dramatically. Seeing him glare at the floor, Kazerus stammers, "It's the thought that counts. If you keep at it, you’ll be a great healer!"

Relaxing his face, Timo says flatly, "Yeah." He massages Kazerus's arm with his thumbs. "Let me try again." Wave one, the gash shores at the dermis, wispy collagen threads pulling through, resembling washed up seaweed. Like a lone boy in a canoe, he paddles the deeper tides, attempting the unification of muscle fibers. Yet with every stroke, a morass saps away his fluency, rendering him into nothing more than a clumsy quack. His sweating and tremors return.

Kazerus says, "Stop. Just take a break. We can try again tomorrow. You're still new to this."

Timo smiles and gives Kazerus a light rub over his arm. At least the new skin is hairless and tight, the muscles wonderfully supple. "Okay, bossman. Tomorrow."

Kazerus retracts his arm, forcing Timo to back off. He gets up to open drawers, eventually fishing out a roll of gauze, and wraps himself a compression band for pain relief.

If Timo cries foul and accuses Scorpion for molesting him, showing evidence of physical harm, he can get the witchhunter lynched. If Scorpion cries first, he has no idea what propaganda Scorpion is capable of. Keeping silent will deteriorate Timo's chances; his most advantageous action is to speak fast. People are lazy and would rather believe the first story they hear, and as a child, he has the pathos.

To achieve that, the adults need unanimous consensus that Scorpion is guilty, and the kids will parrot the adults, and it’ll all become a reinforcing echo chamber. If the kids try to say anything bad about Timo, he’ll beat the shit out of them until their eyeballs pop out of their heads, and claim The Scorpion molested them too. Then the adults will drive their pitchforks into him until he is nothing but a smear on the pavement. But, Scorpion is a tricky fellow; instead of getting lynched, he might convince them that a public hearing is necessary.

In the case of a public hearing, the stage will be set with Mr. Scorpion bound and gagged to a tree, where the farmers will gather, holding axes and menacing glares. Desperate and cold, Mr. Scorpion will wax poetic about the murder of Harcus, and prattle on about pointless things to delay his demise, his veins will pop out of his forehead, so dedicated is he to prove his innocence.

Kazerus will wipe off his sweat, defend Timo and scream that he is a healer, everyone’s face will light up, Timo will rise on the berg of the Glacier, the Arsonist will split the clouds with arrows of light, the Aegis will shake the forest, and birds will herald the Dancer. He will sell them a promise, that once he’s gotten the medical school degree, he’ll come back and work as a physician and bless them long happy forever rides with express tickets to the afterlife, although he has no intention of ever returning to this shitty farm.

He will pray to the Great Spirit and pray to The Scorpion, he will wear nice robes that smell like lavender soap, he’ll step up to Mr. Scorpion, who's all bruised from the rough rope, and say, "Don’t bother returning," then with a flaming sword he’ll behead Mr. Scorpion, but before he proceeds to stab him a million times, he’ll take the trenchcoat and knives and leave him naked, then rain judgement by stabbing Mr. Scorpion’s limp body a million times and splattering his guts all over the tree. The whole sky will shower with Scorpion blood and as each drop touches the farmers, the liquid will corrode into their skulls and melt all of them, as they putrefy into puddles they’ll scream and cry and their souls will leave their vessels, but before they can rise to heaven, Timo will take the sword and slice off their spirit heads and fashion them into spirit rings to adorn his fingers. Somehow, the butchers will remain alive, untouched by the blood, and they will sing hymns like they did with the bull.

In a fair jury, Timo would have the advantage to win.

However, the world is rarely fair. If Mr. Scorpion decides his chance of winning a trial is impossible, an animal backed into a corner becomes dangerous. Mr. Scorpion may try to silence Timo sooner rather than later.

How soon?

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Timo is supposed to visit the clinic for Vantegia's answer. He will be most vulnerable then.

He wobbles onto his knees and crawls towards his bed of pelts in the corner of the room. The boy tuckers himself and strokes the fur weakly. A bundle of fabric is crammed against the wall, the interplay of candleglow and shadow resembling dunes of sand, where the unfinished slippers and the sewing supplies are kept under wraps. The slippers aren't important. Gift-giving is a strategic act meant to generate trust in the recipient so he can manipulate them, not because he cares about anyone. In fact, when he realized none of the butchers truly understand him, he had been disappointed. They’re drones who follow a script their whole lives, always floating in the middle of a lake, swimming nowhere like wooden ducks.

Kazerus… Timo scowls, and his nails grate against the planks.

Kazerus blabbers about class equality utopia, but is too drunk to stage a revolution. Samiltus always complains about his back but refuses to retire, Arviel chronically makes unfunny dick jokes, Palatius never talks except to recount stale stories of his former ex-champion axe-throwing glory days. They’re all so annoying. They will miss him more than he’ll miss them.

Too weak to move, an uncontrollable urge denies him peace. He writhes in bed, trapped and suffocating.

Kazerus… I don't know if there’s a tomorrow for me.