The Last Witch

Navarre called out from somewhere distant. Asher opened his eyes to find himself back in Dalvany Manor, still full of people and all of them staring at him. He saw no sign of the strange woman or the birds, no sign of Penn or any of the monsters. There was a black feather stuck to his shirt, but when he grabbed it, his fingers phased right through it and it vanished. He wore a suit he didn’t recognise, made of a fabric that felt stuffy and static. Beyond the crowd, somewhere at the other end of the manor, Navarre called for help. 

Asher pushed forward, ignoring how dozens of pairs of eyes that bore into him as he forced his way through the crowd. There was no conversation, no clinking of glass or so much as a shift in fabric. Only his footsteps echoed across the polished floor. Everyone was staring, though the usual whispers behind hands and looks shared behind backs was missing. The collar of his shirt was pulling too tight at his neck, and he lifted his hand to pull it free when a hand caught his wrist and pulled him to a stop. It was an older man who had grabbed him, a face he didn’t recognise. The man shook his head and forced Asher’s hand back down to his side. Others in the crowd parted, signalling for him to keep walking. Asher hesitated, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Slowly, glancing around for some kind of sign of what was happening, he continued on. 

The suit grew tight around his chest, and Asher made to adjust the buttons, but as soon as he lifted his hand, an excruciating pain enveloped it, the bones of his wrist igniting as hot coals pressed in where the man had grabbed him. He cried out as the muscles seized, but the more he moved the worse it got, until he gritted his teeth and forced his hand back to his side. The pain eased. He rubbed at the still twinging skin with his other arm, and a woman rushed forward and took his other hand in both of hers, pushing it down to the side. He smacked her grip back before she could let go, but the pain returned, just as intense as before, sharp enough to make him stagger.

At this, several hands grabbed at his coat and his arms and his neck, forcing him into an upright position, straightening his back and squaring out his shoulders, keeping him in an upright, official position. As soon as they let go, he almost dropped again, but as he caught himself, his entire body exploded in a new wave of pain, and no matter how much he pushed against it, or how much he tried to straighten again, hot wires wrapped tight around muscle and seared through to the bone. Asher screamed, writhing and silently begging for someone to help. In the distance, Navarre screamed with him. The onlookers only watched with wide, pointed smiles spreading across their faces. 

Asher woke. His body still burned and his skin was tight, his breathing escaping in a gasp. His vision blurred, and he saw only the dark wooden beams holding up the roof above. The strong scent of herbs burned his nose, and shadows shifted around on the edge of his peripherals. Exhaustion pulled him back under quickly. 

When he woke again, beams of golden light drifted across those same foundations, and he found the strength to take in the rest of the room. It was small and cosy, with aged, peeling wallpaper and not much room for anything other than the bed he lay on and a small table beside it. The bed itself had wrapped him tight in thick duvets and quilts, his body sinking down into a padded mattress. 

A woman sat on a small stool in front of the little table, crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle. Asher didn’t recognise her. She was older, her face smooth except for lines of concentration burrowed into her forehead. Deft, arthritic fingers worked the tools, and short, dark hair fell to her shoulders. There was a wide, innocent aspect to each of her features, her eyebrows arched, her dark eyes round and large, and her thin lips twisted wide as she bit down on her lip. 

‘You’re awake again,’ she commented. 

Asher tried to speak, but no sound came out. Fog clouded his brain. He tried to connect this place, this woman, to where he had been before. 

‘You’re fever is still running high, so don’t try and talk,’ the woman said. ‘Though when you’re better, you need to tell me where you came from.’

The underlands. The prison for the worst, most unforgivable monsters imaginable, like in the stories he heard as a kid. The eternal prison where souls of the most evil and depraved were locked away. He didn’t know how he got there, or how he got out, but any memory that could tell him anything else was slipping away. The whole thing was a delirious nightmare sinking deep into the forgotten parts of his mind. 

He closed his eyes, trying to pull something to the forefront of his mind. When he opened them again, the sky outside was dark, and the woman was gone. 

Time became a blur. He woke and drifted off, woke and drifted off. Sometimes the woman returned. She fed hot, bitter soup to him, and spoke to him, but everything she said fell out of his head as soon as he fell asleep again. Sometimes pain wracked through his body, his skin and muscles screaming at him, and sometimes it was only a dull throb. The nightmares were constant. He saw the old man with too many teeth and the fly-man, he saw people in a crowd that looked normal until their skin fell off. Navarre was always calling out. 

Navarre was gone. 

The thought was a punch to the gut, more painful than any of his injuries. His oldest friend, who had all but held his hand through the meeting with Lord Barque and his aunt. He was gone. Probably dead. If he wasn’t, he would be soon enough. Those monsters had taken him. He wasn’t coming back.

A strange voice pulled him out of his daze, moreso than anything else had, and Asher took a moment to ground himself. He clenched his fingers against the sheets, and though they were numb, they moved. His eyes were dry, but blinking a few times fixed that. He couldn’t feel his legs. 

‘...I need to tell the others he’s here.’ The male’s voice was familiar, though Asher couldn’t figure out where he had heard it before. ‘You need to be careful, alright?’

‘They can come and visit as much as they like.’ The woman. The one who had been sitting beside his bed. ‘I’m not going to hold him hostage.’

‘Any questions about his leg, and I am not going to cover for you,’ the man said. ‘Do you understand?’

‘You’re the one who splintered it.’

‘Yes, and that’s all I can do,’ the man said. ‘You’re on your own, Gershwin.’

‘I wasn’t expecting anything else,’ the woman - Gershwin - said. ‘Though I imagine you still want the herbs?’

The man sighed. ‘The herbs I can explain. The herbs look like any other mix from an apothecary. But if people start coming out here, you need to watch yourself. Everyone is scared, and they’re on short fuses.’

‘You think I’m not scared?’ Gershwin asked. ‘I appreciate your concern, doctor, I really do, but I’m only trying to help. I wasn’t about to leave him out there.’

‘I know.’ The man sighed. ‘Send for me if anything changes. Right now he needs a lot of rest and time to recover.’

Footsteps receded into the distance, the echo of leather against wood ringing out, followed by the click of a door. Asher forced his eyes to open, the effort pulling at strength he didn’t have. Once again, the woman was sitting at his bedside, crushing herbs in her little bowl. 

‘Where am I?’ Asher’s voice escaped in a croak. 

Gershwin jumped violently, pressing a hand into her heart. ‘Oh my. I didn’t realise you were awake.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ Asher said. He tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but his arms only shook at the effort. 

Gershwin placed a gentle hand on his chest. ‘Don’t try and get up. You nearly died. You need to rest.’

‘I...’ Everything was coming to him in a haze. He didn’t know what was a fever-induced nightmare and what was real. The only thing that seemed constant across both was the fear. Fear that still buzzed under his skin and tugged at his anxiety. 

‘Let’s see if I can answer all the usual ones.’ Gershwin placed her tools down, then crossed her hands in her lap. ‘My name is Gershwin Golharie. You’re in my home on Golharie farms. We found you out in our rice field, and we thought you were dead. The doctor came along and told me you were Lieutenant Wulverman, from Ralkauda, and you’ve been missing for a week. We didn’t know that of course, but the doctor said it’s best not to move you, so you’ll stay here.’

‘A week?’ Asher echoed. ‘It’s been a whole week?’

‘Well, four of those days were here,’ Gershwin said. She shifted, her fingers knotting together. ‘Do you know how you got out there? Or what happened to you?’

Asher shook his head. The motion made his chest ache. If he told her the truth of it, she would think he was mad. He probably had gone mad. That was the only explanation for any of it. 

‘It doesn’t surprise me at all,’ Gershwin said. ‘But most of the fever has passed, and you had some real nasty scratches on your chest that have cleared of infection, so I’d say things are looking up.’

Asher glanced down, noting his bare chest wrapped tight in a white gauze. The memory of the bear monster slashing him open flashed through his head, and he shivered. When he poked at the bandages, the skin only twanged in response. He’d taken another injury as well, he remembered the pain.

He couldn’t feel his legs. 

Easing his hands downward, he ignored Gershwin’s noise of protest as he pulled the covers back. A cry of alarm escaped him.

Below the knee of his left leg was a mess. His skin was covered in purple and red blotches, and the limb was swollen, the joint of the ankle invisible beneath stretched bruises. A wooden splint was strapped to either side of his leg, taped in place to force the limb straight. Looking at it made the bones ache in a way he’d never felt before, constant and horrible and grinding. He leaned down to prod at the knee, and the skin burned. He tried to wriggle his toes, but they didn’t budge. 

‘It’s healing,’ Gershwin said. ‘It’s a little agitated because the doctor just adjusted the splints, but it’s better than it was. He managed to put the bone back together.’

Asher didn’t say anything. The words had already fallen out of his head. All he saw was a mangled, bruised blotch where his leg used to be. The sound of it breaking echoed through his head. Men who broke their bones in the city were turned away from the Watch. They walked with limbs and slings, and limped in the cold. 

He wouldn’t be walking on it for a long time. He wouldn’t be able to work for a long time. 

‘Asher.’ Gershwin twisted her fingers together again. ‘I know you’re scared, and you’re in a lot of pain, but I promise I’m doing what I can. It will heal. You just need rest and time.’

‘I know you are,’ Asher mumbled. ‘I appreciate all you’ve done. Really. Thank you.’

Colour flushed through Gershwin’s cheeks. She paused, then met his gaze. ‘You’re sure you don’t remember anything?’

Asher shifted. He wondered if maybe Gershwin knew more about what happened to him than he originally thought. Though, he didn’t even believe in monsters. They were just stories. The Underlands were fables, they were myths. He couldn’t even know now if he was alone in this assumption, and everyone who told him those stories told them as truth, or if he was now completely alone in knowing they were real. 

He didn’t know which parts were real.

‘No,’ Asher muttered. ‘I don’t know what happened. I don’t understand.’

‘The fever gave you a pretty rough sleep,’ Gershwin said. ‘Nightmares?’

Asher nodded. 

‘You can tell me about those, if you like,’ Gershwin said. ‘It might feel better, to put it out in the open?’

Asher shifted again. He would say the same thing to people who were frantic or in hysterics. One step at a time. Break it down, go over it piece by piece. That was all he was now. Another victim of everything that happened, rather than the one putting it together. 

‘I... remember being scared,’ Asher admitted. ‘And fire, and...’ Navarre. Navarre was gone, dragged into the darkness by those monsters. That felt real. It felt hollow and empty and stabbed deep into his gut. ‘My friend was there. I think he’s... I think he’s gone.’

Gershwin’s face fell, and he saw sadness behind her eyes, a true hurt from something he couldn’t know. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she mumbled. 

The words felt like a punch to the gut. 

‘I’ll leave you to get some rest.’ Gershwin rose to her feet. She leaned over and pulled the sheets back over his body, hiding his leg from view. ‘The doctor will tell people in Dalvany you’re here, so you might have a few guests. Try and get some sleep, okay?’

She gave a small bow of the head, then made for the door. Asher felt a pang of guilt at his own uselessness. This woman owed him nothing, and she was doing everything to help him, and there was nothing he could do to repay that. He didn’t even know where to begin if he could move his limbs. 

Perhaps honesty was the next best thing. 

‘There’s something else.’ The words burst out before he could stop them. Gershwin stopped in the doorway. ‘I don’t know how I got here, but I remember birds.’

Gershwin noticeably flinched. ‘Birds?’

‘A lot of birds,’ Asher said. ‘Crows or ravens or... something. That’s all I remember.’

Gershwin was still for a long moment, her knuckles white against the doorframe. Something shifted in the shadows behind her eyes. Surprise or hurt or... eagerness? It disappeared before he could see it properly. 

‘Try and get some sleep,’ Gershwin said. ‘Nothing will hurt you here.’