Aralyn finishes laying out what 11 guesses must be half the contents of her entire bag, and then immediately begins the lengthy task of unwrapping everything.

11 wants to tell the girl to stop, but her mind is preoccupied with all the powders, dusts, tiny plants, and vials of liquid strewn about all over the ground, none of which she is familiar with. She watches Aralyn's hands fly gracefully from pestle to beaker to bandages, breaking and stirring and spreading, a look of utter concentration on her face.

When she is finished, Aralyn comes over and positions herself over 11, clamping her long legs on either side of the God Gier's torso. “Sorry about this,” she says, "It's going to feel like I'm killing you, but please trust me, and don't move."

11 eyes the cloth in Aralyn's hands. It looks to have been soaked in gravy, and the smell is enough to make 11's eyes water just by looking at it. “I don't think that's-” 11 begins, but she doesn't even have time to finish her sentence before an immense burning grips her body. She cries out and instinctively tries to rise, but Aralyn pushes her down, keeping the cloth steadily pressed against her open wounds.

"It’s okay, you’re okay,” Aralyn says encouragingly as if comforting a child. “We're almost done, you’re doing good. Hang in there.”

“Hang... where?” 11 pants, her breath stolen away by the molten daggers pressing into her. “Nevermind that... ouch! I don’t... I don't need fixing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aralyn closes her eyes as if preparing to pray. “This will kill any infections that may have gotten into your blood.” She then begins whispering in a low, hushed voice, in a language 11 does not understand.

At first, nothing seems to happen. Then, there is the slightest, most subtle shift in the world; a change in the atmospheric pressure that 11 cannot quite describe. Something tickles at her chest, and she looks down to see faint rays of golden light seeping through Aralyn’s fingers, pressed where the cloth is, over the wound.

11 chews her lip as the injury begins to burn and itch, but the pain is peculiar, not nearly as intense now. And soon, even this subsides, and 11 starts to feel something else; energy, pulsing in waves through the tissue and muscles in her body, stimulating the broken skin to close.

After a few long, uncomfortable seconds, Aralyn stops the chant, and the light disappears. She gets off 11 and lets out a long breath. “You’re a fighter,” she says, patting 11’s head. “Humans usually pass out at this point. You don’t look like you’re from the village, but you look familiar. Have we met before?”

"I really doubt it," 11 answers, studying the girl through dizzy vision. Despite the unusual hair and eye color, and the long ears, the girl's bone structure, muscle mass, and basic anatomy match that of a typical human female.

And yet...

Target Identified.

Species: Unknown.

Age: 16-18.

Damage Output Level: 8.

Threat to humanity?: Unsure.

...why is she throwing my scanners for a loop like this?

"Is something wrong?"

11 snaps back to reality with a start, and realizes with embarrassment that she has been staring like a maniac. She takes in a shaky breath before saying, “Uh, yeah. I mean no. Nothing is wrong.”

Aralyn blinks, then without warning, her hands fly up to her ears. "Aah." She makes a little noise of amusement, her brows raised in a show of understanding. "Don't worry," she says, "I'm not a full-blooded elf. I'm not going to blow up this forest or anything. Promise." She turns back to her ingredients, and as she mixes up another batch of medicine onto a new piece of cloth, she asks 11, “So, do you know what attacked you?”

“Yes. It’s dead, though.” What did she mean by that last comment? And why does she think we've met? Did she meet another Gier in the past? And did she just call herself an elf? So there are elves in this world now?

“That's good," says Aralyn, coming back to 11 with the cloth ready in her hands. "I’d hate to have to deal with whatever creature capable of doing this. Hold on, this will hurt.”

Once again, 11 has to clench her fingers and toes against the pain, but just like last time, she feels her wounds healing.

11 tries to think through this bizarre phenomenon as scientifically and logically as possible. Her body has already broken down and analyzed the physical components of the mixture spread on the cloth that is pressed against her, but the compound is mostly just made from plant fibers and animal tissue. It is a logical conclusion to say there is absolutely nothing about the mixture that should be able to produce such potent healing effects.

What about the chanting?

11 focuses on the stream of words coming out of Aralyn, but they are too fast for her to distinguish, and what words she can make out is unknown when she runs it through Mother's database. Perhaps the enemy managed to corrupt the data regarding this particular tongue. If that's the case, then there is no hope for 11 to understand the chant any time soon.

The sounds of battle echo through the trees, accented by the monster's screams and the men's shouts. The air becomes dry and crispy as the temperature rises, and a second later, there is a loud roar of fire, followed by another screech.

“Leave that wraith to the boys,” Aralyn says when she sees 11 looking into the forest. “I’ve got two more wounds to close and we’re done." She flicks away a bead of sweat that's been hanging on her eyelashes, and then her eyes widen as if she's just remembered something important. "Shoot, I completely forgot. I’m Aralyn, by the way. You've probably been worrying if I was some kind of elf-savage who was healing you just to eat you later, huh. Goddesses, no wonder you've been staring at me like that. I'm a proper adventurer, really. Here's my license.” She reaches into her mint-green cloak and produces a thin, metallic card.

On it inscribes:

Aralyn Windborne of Overlake

Adventurer Rank: E

Class: Healer

I can read the words, thinks 11, but I have no idea what any of them are supposed to mean.

"I didn't think you were a savage," 11 tells Aralyn, looking up into her violet-colored eyes. "But truth be told, if the savages in these woods looked like you, I wouldn't mind being eaten."

No sooner have the words left her, does 11 realize what she has said. She clamps her mouth shut, but it is too late, if the surprised look on Aralyn's face proves anything.

"Uhm. Okay," the girl says slowly. "I didn't, uhm." She glances away, tucks her hair behind a pointed ear. 11 looks around too, to find a rabbit burrow to stuff her head inside of. But then she hears Aralyn laugh.

"Thank you," the elf girl says, her face flushed with a fetching shade of red. "I didn't expect to hear that from someone who isn't Fennald. Actually, not even he has said anything like that. Anyway, you're very kind. What is your name?"

“Reaper-class God Gier, Mark II, Unit 11.” The phrase slips out automatically before 11 can stop herself. Then the irrational but logical fear of being seen as a failure makes her ramble. "I already killed the D.E., so this injury was rightfully sustained. And it was completely self-repairable, too. I'm sorry, I should've told you sooner. My software, there's something-" She stops when it is clear that Aralyn has not understood a word of what she's just said.

“Did you hit your head or something?” The elf asks, concern creasing between her thin brows.

11 looks at this red-haired, purple-eyed elf, at the medicine-soaked bandages in her hand, at her armor made of broiled leather, and then at her clothes that look to be spun from coarse wool. 11 then glances around at the circle in the ground surrounding them, drawn by the boy with the staff, and then one more part of Gier 10's log clicks into place.

'They have all forgotten the past, and they do not need to be reminded. You will only spread fear and cruelty if you try.'

“I…” says 11, deciding then to spare this kind girl from as much fear and cruelty as she possibly can, “I did. Yes. I hit my head pretty hard.”

“By the goddesses, you might be worse than I thought,” Aralyn murmurs, leaning over 11 again. "But don't you worry, we will get you out of here and to a better healer than me." She positions the cloth over 11's stomach. “Hold on, this’ll hurt.”