"Drink this, Aral. Tastes like shit, but so does all the best medicine, you'll be right as rain in no time."

Orwell practically forced the spoon into my mouth.

He wasn't wrong. It really tasted like shit. Shit blended with metal. Also a hint of banana, strangely.

He'd been giving me this concoction four times per day. Breakfast, dinner, tea and just before nightfall. If I'm not eating, I'm sleeping, at the minute. Without fail, no matter what I do, I can't keep my eyes open for more than a half hour without drifting back off into unconsciousness.

The worst part? I dream the same dream every time.

Just a pitch blackness. Within my dream, I see myself lying comatose on the floor of this blackness, and theres nothing I can do nothing except walk around. I tried to wake my dreaming self up, to no avail, the version of me that looks like he's actually getting a good night's rest just snores and turns in his sleep, much to my frustration. Sometimes he'll sleep talk, but it's nothing of any sense, just meaningless grumbles and words. Sometimes he'll whisper "great one", whatever that means, but it'll always set the dude to smiling.

Thankfully, Orwell wasn't as insane as I gave him credit for, and to be honest I feel a little bad at profiling him that way.

Evertime I would wake, he'd be in the room, and as soon as he'd notice me awake, he'd head over with a cheerful, if encyclopedic, greeting, and some surprisingly tasty food. Thank god his food doesnt taste like his medicine. I don't think I could survive. He's yet to slip back into his gangster-esque accent, and seems set on annoying me with his flowery speech and long words. To my relief, there haven't been any more dealings with bandits, but whether that is due to Orwell I couldn't say, though if I was a bandit, I'd stay well away from this unassuming village. I mean just on a logical level, it doesn't seem overly prudent to antagonise the short tempered murder-medic. Regardless, I'm glad they haven't returned, I think I threw up half of my bodyweight after I recovered from my stupor that the sight of Orwell gutting them had given me.

One of the village children even giggled at my thousand yard stare, but to his credit Orwell scolded the little, soon to-be-murdering, psychopathic bastard.

"how long until I can walk, Orwell?" The man always seemed averse to giving me news straight, which forced me to ask extremely pointed questions, making sure I got the answer I wanted, and not some flowery speech that meant fuck all in the long run.

"No idea, kiddo. Could be next week, could be next year. Your muscles were overused, and that's putting it lightly. Imagine if a newborn squatted a boulder, and then imagine what his muscles would look like after it. That's you. You're the newborn."

Gee thanks. He was averse to straight answers, but when you actually managed to wrangle them out of him, you better not be a sensitive soul, because his words were almost always a backhand to your ego.

"Why am I here? Why are you looking after me?" This was the question I had been gearing up towards for a while. What did I have that he was aiming for? By all measures, I had been nothing but a drain on him for the almost two months I had been here. He told me not to worry about expenses and that he had more than enough to live on, but how much could a medieval medic make?

"You are too cynical, Aral. I was on the medic squad that found you that day, and it just so happens I was retiring soon anyway, so I offered to take you in and look after you. The Commander acquiesced. I can see it in your eyes. You're wondering what plan I have for you. It can't be helped, you've been through a lot for one so young, and it'll be a while longer before you can shed that mindset. Trust me, I speak from experience. I promise you, the day you are healed, you can leave here for good, if that is what you wish." Orwell gently rubbed my shoulder, his eyes sincere.

I mean... When you put it like that, what argument can I make? I'm not going to allow him to treat me like this without paying him back. That just goes against everything I stand for.

"...Thanks. I'll pay you back. Promise."

"Sigh. I did not save you because I thought it would benefit me in the long run, Aral. You will accept my care for what it is. And if you try to pay me back, I'll break your legs. After they've recovered of course, I'm not a monster."

He was smiling, but I really don't doubt he's telling the truth.

"Listen. I've been meaning to show you. You were too brittle when you first came here, but you've calmed down a lot, so I thought I'd get it out of the way now. Look." Orwell produced a small hand mirror from behind his back, hesitating briefly before putting it in my hand, squeezing my grip shut with both of his hands.

I fought my way out of his grasp, which was a little too tight for my liking, and raised the mirror to my face. Thank god he finally gave me one. I was wondering whether mirrors even existed in this technological age, and I really wanted to see my youthful face again.

"Unwrap the bandages Aral."

I did as he said, and unwrapped the multitude of clean bandages that covered my face, they essentially only left my right eye and mouth open. I-

I covered my mouth with my other hand, swallowing the surge of bile that jumped up my throat. My stomach dropped, my heart rate speeding up. I looked like a burn victim. There was something otherworldly about seeing your own face so scarred. Something about the permanent nature of it that shook you to the core of your being. From the socket of my left eye, across my cheek and temple, and over my ear, my skin was a pinkish red hue, all of it completely mangled. My left eye was white with impotence. It was a relatively small scarring compared to some of the horrific burns I had witnessed online, but it changed my face completely. It aged me much more than was fair for a 'child' of my age.

The blood-acid. From the motel demon.

Where it had touched my hair, it had turned my normally black hair into a bleached white, which left a sizeable portion of my hair a completely different colour than the rest.

"I'm so sorry, Aral. I tried my best. I really spared no expense. I-"

"Its okay." I comforted him. Why would he apologise? It's not as if he did this himself. Besides, I've grown to trust him this past month. Other than him killing a few people, people that were almost certainly up to no good, Orwell was a pretty stand up guy, and at the very least, I could tell his dedication to my recovery was sincere. Mysterious, yes, but sincere nonetheless.

"Why did it turn my hair white? Surely it should have scarred my scalp instead, burning through my hair?" I also had questions. Plenty of them, and I didn't want my only contact in this world to be upset with me.

"So you know it was Daemon ichor that did this to you?" Daemon ichor? Orwell once again with his flamboyant use of language. Just say Demon blood. We're alone buddy, there's no one you have to impress.

"Yes."

"I see. Well, not much is known of the effects of Daemon ichor, but what we do know, is that it has acidic physical properties. But that isn't everything. In truth, it only physically presents itself as acidic, when in reality what it is doing is actually stealing the life force of that which it comes in contact with. Inanimate objects are ate through as if it is acid, skin is mangled similarly, and hair is stolen of all of its vibrance. Apparently scholars liken it to how our hair turns white in old age. This... This also means that it is extremely hard to recover from. Medicine capable of restoring life force are few and far between, I myself have never seen such concotions." I know I've been in this world for too long, because the mention of something 'stealing life force' doesn't actually make it to the top fifteen list of things I have to ask about.

"If... Daemon ichor... acts like that, then are injuries similar to mine common? I assume from how you refer to them as 'The Enemy', that battles are fought often."

"Actually... No. I'd imagine you could only find a handful of people with injuries similar to yours throughout the Empire, if that. Only High-Daemons and above have ichor, at least according to history books, and to have injuries from one would mean that not only was the Daemon injured enough to bleed, but that you also survived that encounter. I imagine quite a few powerful warriors have sported injuries similar to yours, but none currently alive. At least that I've seen or heard about." I see. So I'm an outcast. Again. Excellent. I need to take my mind off of this. It's seriously too much for me to handle right now. They talk about having 'enough on your plate', but I need a few tables in order to house all my issues right now.

"Orwell, tell me another story, please."

At first, it was Orwell that had began telling me these stories on his own, posting himself up near my bed on his stool so that I was forced to listen, nodding and agreeing just as I used to when Karen would tell me stories of her honeymoon. I'd laugh when I was supposed to laugh and frown when I was supposed to frown. But eventually, he won me over. These weren't meaningless and boring stories about how Orwell went on a 'totally rad' night out and 'drank so much', they were from books he housed in a small bookshelf on the opposite wall to my bed, close to his own bedroom door.

He claimed that he had read them all so much that he could recite them word for word by heart, and he wasn't joking. I complained originally that he was essentially reading me bedtime stories, like I was some sort of child, to which he said, "Firstly, you are a child, and secondly, these works are historical fact. They're exaggerated a little bit for effect sure, but the events depicted actually happened. In some cases, there are people alive today who were actually present for them." I doubt the veracity of that statement, but if he was telling the truth, these books made it to the top of my questions to ask list. The acts talked about within were supernatural in nature. Completely out of the realm of human possibility.

"Of course. This one is called, 'The Swordsman', written by His Emperor's Pridebearer, Captain Jellel Otsui." Orwell plucked a book seemingly at random from the shelf, and brought it over, sitting across from me on his stool.

"My first gift was that of a family sword, passed down on my first birthday by my father. As a child I marvelled at the hilt, gripped at the pommel, felt the guard, traced my finger down its middle, all the while mesmerized by my young reflection in the blade. Since I first touched that sword it had very rarely left my side. The weight of the longsword was not something that I felt inconvenienced my young frame, if anything I felt lost without it, only feeling whole again when its large mass weighed me down.

From when my muscles first developed enough to be able to carry it aloft, I have trained in the sword. Every day I swung until my arms gave out, but never once did I allow myself to drop the sword. I have lived a long life, highs and lows aplenty. I have lived through the arrogance and passion of youth, the zeal and commitment of adulthood, and now, as an old man, I have sat back, acquiescing to the new blood, allowing them to create their own tales.

Never once, though, never once in my adult life have I called myself a Swordsman.

I have seen enough violence to make a hardened warrior queasy, and have cut through many things, people, and Daemons alike, but a Swordsman I am not.

I used to fancy myself a Swordsman in my youth, true, and a fair few joined me in that sentiment, labelling me a dragon amongst men. It was that praise that fuelled my youthful arrogance, which found me joining His Majesty's army in his effort against the Daemon invasion. The youngest to achieve Knighthood in decades, they called me. I wouldn't be anywhere but the frontlines, I was the strongest, the greatest, 'Invincible Under the Sun!' I screamed.

Then I met a Swordsman.

The Swordsman.

It was ordered from a commanding officer, an enemy army was coming, and it was coming fast. Travel north-west and rendezvous with the main force, hunkering down until they hit.

I waited for days in the war-tent, whetting my blade unceasingly, shivering with anticipation for my first large scale conflict. Eventually, the war bugles bellowed and our entire troop rose to the occasion. I took my place proper, standing in front of a myriad of soldiers, only behind a handful of commanders.

A great fog arose far out, gaining pace towards us, looming tall over our army like an angry god.

A single man stepped from that grey gloom.

The mist, in an almost intelligent manner, no longer decided to continue its great advance, stopping urgently as if an impenetrable and invisible wall had blocked its path. His sword lay lazily sheathed at his waist as he trot forward, the rabid howls of our army doing naught to mar his stroll through the fields.

And then he looked at me, and I understood, like a lightning bolt illuminating my ignorant brain.

This... is a Swordsman.

I am but a man wielding a sword. Foolishly, I thought myself a Swordsman because I could cut steel with my blade. Laughable. To think I was so far away from the truth. His wordless gaze laid bare all I was lacking and more.

Some tell me that towards the end of my career, I achieved greater heights than that swordsman ever did, but I know that false. There has never been a night since where I do not see his red eyes staring down at me from his lofty perch, an unscaleable mountain forever out of my reach. I have achieved much, that is true, the first of my name to be appointed a Royal Pridebearer, the official weight of the Emperor assisting my every move, but never have I even dreamed of being able to cut a man's confidence without drawing my sword.

And yet, I can't even allow my warrior spirit to dream of clashing with that man, for it was him that allowed me this long and prosperous life. He had the power, will, and means to cut me down upon the battlefield that day, and yet he did not. I never understood that. Not until I had already retired.

I was tending my garden, when a bug landed upon my arm. I moved to squash it, but at the last second, I stopped myself. The bug flew off, and I understood. I am the bug, and he is the hand. That was the reason I was granted life that day. Nothing more and nothing less than the whims of a being beyond my comprehension. How pitiful."

"A good story, right?" Orwell stroked the leather bound book, I had witnessed him reciting them from memory, but he said that reading them was just as enjoyable for him as it was for me. A peculiar man.

"And that one, is it real?"

"As real as you or I. The Otsui family have birthed Pridebearers ever since Jellel's time. They are one of His Majesty's closest supporters."

Amazing.