It takes 11 only half-a-day to reach the gates, even with Aralyn in her arms.

Turns out, there is a shorter route from the clearing to the village, if one is willing to uproot a few trees along the way.

When the ranger guard, Jeri, spots the pair approaching, he nearly falls out of his platform to get to them.

“Lower the gate!” he shouts, slinging his bow over one arm and dropping a trail of arrows across the field.

11 waits until the young man has reached her before speaking to him. “Does Alola sell wine?”

“W-wine?” Jeri looks wide-eyed between 11 and Aralyn. “Yes, but why are you asking about that? Where are the other two? The mage and the fighter?”

“The wraith has been vanquished,” 11 tells Jeri, marching past him through the opened gate. “We only managed it with your leader’s sacrifice. Make sure everyone knows that.”

Lawheim’s house looks and smells much the same. 11 does not bother with courtesy. She gives the door a kick and the entire thing nearly flies off its hinges.

With a shout and an explosion of bottles, the doctor launches himself from off the ground, from where he seems to have passed out. There is a moment of confusion as his eyes scan the room, before finally settling on 11.

“I thought I told you never to come back.”

11 steps through the doorway, cradling Aralyn close to her chest. “A beautiful girl needs your help, doctor.”

“What did you do?” the doctor demands, now forced to acknowledge Aralyn’s existence. “What have you done?”

11 strides over to the table. Despite his drinking problem, the doctor has kept it clear of any bottles or rubbish, as if he has been expecting to use it. “Multiple hairline fractures in the ribs,” 11 lists as she settles Aralyn down, “though none are displaced, or pose a threat to internal organs. There is major bruising around her neck, likely from strangulation, and on her head, possibly from blunt trauma. She’s also suffering from severe dehydration and exhaustion. And also, quite rude for you to assume I had anything to do with this.” She turns to stare at Lawheim, who asks simply,

“Didn’t you?”

“Well… yea, but it’s still rude.”

Lawheim sighs, and drags himself over to the shelves on the wall, rubbing his temples. “The other lads?” he asks, the hangover making him trip over some of his words. “They… uh, didn’t make it?”

11 shakes her head. “They died valiantly. So did the leader of this village. We could not have done it without him.”

Lawheim laughs; a hollow, mirthless sound. “I see you’ve taken my suggestions about lying to heart.” He scans the shelf, picks out a roll of bandages from behind a jar of green slime. “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

“I wasn’t lying.”

“And I wasn’t complimenting you.” Lawheim gathers some more things, and dumps them onto a nearby chair. He comes back to Aralyn, pulling a blunt dagger from his belt. “Alright, let’s see if this elf’s body looks as good as her face does.” He stifles a yawn, swaying as he fumbles to get the dagger under Aralyn’s shirt.

“I’ll do it!” 11 grabs for Lawheim’s dagger with way too much force, but holds herself back just in time to avoid crushing the doctor’s hand. “I’ll… do this part. If you don’t mind, doctor.”

Lawheim gives 11 an amused smirk, before handing over the dagger. “What an interesting girl you are.”

11 tries not to hover as Lawheim works to heal Aralyn. The doctor moves quickly, identifying all the correct places in need of mending, and covering them with herbal paste enhanced by his spells. Within an hour, Aralyn’s vitals are in the stable range already.

“This is… amazing.”

“I know, I am,” says Lawheim as he drags a dirty towel over his forehead. “But you should know, even with my skill, I cannot do much about her broken bones.” He turns to look at 11, peering over his dusty glasses. “You’re going to need to take care of her for the next few weeks.”

11 shifts her gaze away, unable to meet the doctor’s eyes. “I can’t.”

“Well, I certainly won’t.”

“I don’t expect you to do this for free.” 11 takes out a bottle of fermented grape wine from her backpack, and hands it to Lawheim.

The doctor turns the bottle around appreciatively. “Nor should you,” he agrees. “But that is not the point. I can’t take care of a patient in here. I don’t have the resources.”

11 takes out another bottle. “Maybe you can ask the villagers for help.”

Lawheim looks between the bottles in his hands, one in each, and then back at 11. “Does Alola know you’re giving these to me?”

“No, why?”

“Blasted girl thinks it’s a waste for someone like me to drink them!” Lawheim carries the wine over to his shelf and places them in the middle rack. "I think I'll open one in front of her store."

“So you’ll do it?”

“I’ll think about it.” Lawheim stands back to admire the new additions to his collection. “You’re right about the villagers,” he tells 11 without looking at her. “They’re probably already gathering to celebrate their new hero. What a laugh. The elf who saved Oakroot.”

There is no reply, but Lawheim does not notice. She’s not too bad, he thinks. A little strange, but has some sense at least.

“I hope you still have that map,” he says, still without turning around. “There’s a place marked on it that I think you should check out, if you’ve got the time. Might answer some questions you have.”

When there is still no answer, Lawheim turns, but the God Gier is gone, and in her place stands one more bottle of Alola’s finest wines, and a piece of paper.

Lawheim picks it up, opens it.

They’re credited to you. I promise I’ll pay you back one day.

- 11

The doctor crushes the paper in a tight fist, and throws it onto the floor, where it bounces under the table.

“Blasted little… ahaha.”

The laugh escapes him, even though he does not mean to. It shakes his body, burning a trail of bitterness through his muscles. He takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the tears from forming. “I guess they can’t all be as good with people as you were, huh, Yuzu.”

After a few minutes stuck between crying and laughing, Lawheim shakes himself off the memories, and returns to the young elf adventurer sleeping on his table, who is now covered with a blanket he did not take out of the cupboard. He finishes bandaging up the last of her injuries, and steps back to let her rest.

“I wonder what you’d think if you met her,” he whispers, before turning for his shelf, “if you were alive to meet her.”