“He named himself after the witch ward tree also known as mountain ash or rowan tree.” They were the words of a familiar voice. It sounded like the man who took him in as a child.
Another deep wisened voice added, “He was a saved from the soul traders. Though he never truly escaped them...”
Rhainyr thought he was hearing his own eulogy. But he surmised death wasn't this painful. He felt as stiff, dry, and cracked as a day old scab. The smell of straw, horses, caked blood, and old sweat mixed with the smells of a cold breeze and fallen leaves.
The girls were having fun at his expense. Something silly about witches and being a stiff. The girls? Yes, Eloise was here, but the other was Kyra one of his companions he’d left at the camp outside of Valbone.
Falk and Wrym had been explaining their presence at the ritual summoning. Rhainyr’s thoughts were coming back into focus. There was the warmth of the sun on the other side of his closed eyelids. There was the jostle of the farmer's wagon. Each jolt of the cart was cushioned by straw. His head was further cozied on the soft warm lap of a woman. He opened his eyes to a blurry kaleidoscope of color. The dappled leaves of Autumn fused with a blazened cerulean sky.
“Ho! There he rumbles”, Wrym called to the others.
As his vision came into focus Rhainyr saw the angelic smile of Eloise looking down at him. Strands of hair streamed free of her braids in the brisk wind.
Wrym continued, “Welcome back Rhainyr. We were just relating our tale . . . Fie! None of it matters now. Enjoy the beaming smile of young love. You've paid for it well enough. The dagger was lodged in bone, but saved from your vitals. . . And for the King’s grace don't try and sit up again.”
In this moment under the care of his comrades and in the warmth of Eloise, he felt like he no longer had to fight to remain vigilant. He left himself fall into that ever elusive deep contented sleep.