Ghost closed his eyes. At that moment, death sounded like a fine alternative.
“Mister, are you … oh gods, mister, who did this to you?”
Despite the pain, Ghost cracked a smile and laughed.
“That bastard in yellow,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes. He was dying, he was certain of it now. Better to fade away, to pass in his sleep, the waves of pain carrying him off to an ocean of fire or pearl or whatever it was eternity had waiting for him.
“Yellow?” asked another voice.
“I don’t know, he looks…”
And then the voices faded, and he knew darkness, but not for long. Movement, something lifting him, multiple hands on his arms and legs. He opened his eyes once, and he realized he was screaming again. It was odd, for he could not hear it, but he knew he was. He had to be. His lungs burned, his throat tense, his mouth open, and in the distance, he heard a sound that just maybe might be him …
When he awoke, he lay on a bed and was dressed in a simple robe that felt like little more than a white sheet sewn together with three holes left at the top. His tongue felt swollen, his throat parched. Something was missing, he knew, and he felt afraid to move as he looked around, as if movement might awaken whatever was missing. And then he realized what it was. The pain was gone. Somehow, it was gone.
“Gods damn it all,” Ghost said, and he sat up, taking in more of his surroundings. He was in a small room lacking any decorations, and the only furnishing beyond his bed was a chamber pot in the opposite corner. The walls appeared to be made of a pale stone, and above him was a small window with light streaming in. The place felt familiar, but it was still taking him time to figure out where. There were cobwebs in his mind, and a distorted feeling, like a reminder that a great amount of time had passed since he fell in the road. The daylight in the window alone helped confirm that.
There were no signs of his clothes, and Ghost felt panic when he saw his weapons were missing as well. The panic ebbed when he realized how foolish it was to think whoever had kept him alive would suddenly wish to do him harm. Ebbed but never vanished. So many times, the gentle touchers had come with their bandages, sewing kits, and alcohol, fixing him up, allowing him to heal, all so they could start anew in a week’s time, eager to try something different on his chained body. The window was tall and thin, and for all he knew, the door was barred from the outside.
Ghost lay back onto the bed, and he took a deep breath. He’d delayed long enough, but now he had to look. He had to know. Pulling back the blankets, he looked to his exposed arms, and he winced at the river of scars, pale white veins that swirled into one another to mark the fire’s damage. Casting aside the rest of the sheet, he saw his legs were no better. Forcing his dry mouth to swallow, he closed his eyes and touched his face with his fingers, feeling along the skin of his cheeks and forehead. Even there, he felt the subtle change, the mark of deep scars.
“All over,” he whispered, and he tried to decide how he felt. Truth be told, he didn’t even know. His physical appearance was not something he cared much for beyond what he could convey to others, to manipulate or frighten with the size of his muscles or the contrast of the white paint across his face. But for the burns to have healed already, the pain gone and replaced by scars, gave him a clue as to where he might be. Who else could possibly have such skill?
Gingerly, he swung his feet off the bed, stood, and then made his way to the door. Deep in his chest, he felt shame and embarrassment. Gods help him, how many times had he come there in desperate need of aid?
“Calan,” he said, banging on the door. “Calan, I’m awake.”
Twice more he had to knock before he heard movement from the other side. The door swung open, and a young priest stood in a hallway before him. Despite his best attempts to hide it, the boy was clearly disturbed by the sight of him.
“I will fetch the High Priest shortly,” said the boy. “I was told to tell you to stay here when you awoke, while I go get him.”
“Then go fetch him.”
Ghost flung the door shut, then sat back down on his bed. He ran his hands along his arms, feeling the scars. More and more, it felt like his body was awakening, and with it his scars were beginning to itch. He desperately hoped it would stay that way, just an itch, and not the searing pain he dimly remembered.
Several minutes later, the door opened, and Calan stepped inside.
“I must say, this is hardly how I wished to meet you again,” said the priest.
“I agree,” Ghost said. He’d stood upon the old man’s entrance, and now he felt unsure of what to do. By the Abyss, he didn’t even have real clothes, just the thin sheet. So he sat back down, looked to his hands.
“How did I get here?” he asked.
“Two nights ago, some men found you in the middle of the road on their way home from a night of drinking,” Calan said, sitting on his knees in front of Ghost and reaching out to take his left arm and examine it. Slowly, the priest ran his fingers along the scars, and a faint glow shimmered across the fingertips. With their passing, the growing itch faded away.
“They carried you here,” he continued, switching to the right arm. “Well, carried might be generous. You’re a large man, after all, so they more dragged than carried. They dumped you at the doors to our temple, waited until someone came for you, and then left.”
“I suppose I should be grateful.”
“Given the condition you were in, you should be glad they didn’t leave you for dead,” Calan said. “It wouldn’t have taken much longer, I assure you.”
Ghost let out a sigh.
“Forgive me … and did you say two nights ago?”
Calan nodded.
“You’ve been in my care all the while. Ashhur’s blessing has allowed me to keep you asleep through the pain and recovery.” He turned Ghost’s arm over, and he ran a finger over one of the deeper scars. “I’m sorry, Ghost; I did my best, but the burns were so terrible and covered so much of you. I could do nothing about the scars.”
“A mirror,” Ghost said. “Do you have a mirror?”
Calan met his gaze.
“I’d suggest you wait a bit longer before that,” he said.
The answer did little to ease Ghost’s mind.
“If you insist,” he said.
“I do,” Calan said, now moving to the legs. More blue-white light swelled on his fingers, barely perceptible. “Do you know who did this to you?”
“Whoever they are,” Ghost said, “it is of no business of yours.”
Calan stopped what he was doing, and he stood.
“If you do not trust me, then so be it,” he said. “You are healthy enough to leave this place. Go and do so with my blessing, but I have others who need my attention, and should go to them instead.”
“Wait,” Ghost said, before he could go. “Please, forgive me. Just, having you help me makes me feel … ashamed. I will better control my tongue, I promise.”
Calan hesitated, then returned, standing before Ghost, and he put both his hands on Ghost’s face.
“I can do little to help the scars,” he said. “But I will do what I can, at least for your face. This will hurt, but I trust you can handle a bit of pain.”
Ghost closed his eyes and waited for it to begin. Calan began whispering words of a prayer, and then he felt it, a sharp tingling as if spiders were crawling across his face, each one with little hooks at the ends of their feet. The sensation increased, and he heard a ringing in his ears so loud, it overwhelmed Calan’s prayers. Sudden as it began, it ceased. Ghost opened his eyes, and the priest took a step back to observe his handiwork.
“Better,” he said. “I’m sorry, Ghost; this is the best that I can do.”