“Your name is Raeca, isn’t it?”

The voice was male, with an oddly archaic accent that lilted of nobility and farmhand together.

Raeca blinked and looked up from the herbs she was slowly crushing into sweet-scented oil. Beeswax simmered over a low flame beside her, ready to be stirred into the oil when it was ready.

Brendis stood in the doorway, white bandages showing where his sleeves ended, and under the open collar of his shirt. He was still moving like he hurt, but not like it was the kind of hurt she needed to worry about.

“Yes, that’s right,” she confirmed, and nodded to a stool nearby. “You shouldn’t be up yet, but if you must be out of bed, at least sit down.”

That made him smile, and he obediently took the seat. When he was settled, she went back to what she was doing. If she wasn’t careful, it would burn and be useless, and that was no good.

“Thank you,” he said after watching her screw a lid onto the herbed oil and reach for another that had been soaking for weeks. “You and Mitso saved my life. I appreciate it.”

“Well, you did sort of fall at my feet,” she pointed out, and flashed him a quick smile to take the sting out of her words. “It was very dramatic you know.”

“Sorry about that,” Brendis took the teasing and chuckled wryly. “I didn’t- did Mitso tell you the what of me?”

“Only a little,” Raeca told him as she poured the oil through layers of cheesecloth and into a large mixing bowl. Once the jar was empty, she started squeezing the rest of the oil out of the herbs. “Something about a prophesy, and that you reincarnate.”

He smiled and watched as she set the cheesecloth aside and poured her melted wax into the oil. As soon as it was in, she began whipping it furiously with a spoon to make sure it combined properly. “Did he tell you anything else?”

“That it has to do with the Queen and the Dark Sword,” she said breathlessly, still mostly focused on her work. “That the three of you are bound.”

“Did he tell you that I don’t always remember people correctly?”

“Yes,” she shrugged, and eyed the balm, before waking her magic. For this, at least, it was usually reliable. She was good at Green Magic and the little spells that came with potion-making. “He said you don’t always know who is when.”

“He’s right,” Brendis admitted, and leaned forward as she stirred slowly, and left trails of soft green magic in the quickly-cooling balm. “I knew there were healers here. I hoped… well, generally if you collapse in a Healer’s house, they patch you up before yelling about the blood on the floor.”

“Mitso doesn’t have much of a temper, but he really doesn’t like blood everywhere.”

Not that it happened often, but Mitso had been to war long ago, and he had strong feelings about heroes, blood, cleanliness, and dramatics. Raeca didn’t envy Brendis at all. He probably got an earful.

“Yes, he told me at length,” Brendis admitted wryly. “But he also told me that you saved my life. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Raeca said. The balm was cooling, and she spooned it into jars and labeled them. “What happened to you, anyway?”

“Sheer bad luck, for once,” he said, and began capping jars when she pointed at them meaningfully. If he could talk, he could put lids on. “I heard there was goblin pack nearby and thought I would clear them out. I was passing through anyway.”

“Goblins did that to you?” Raeca was going to be much less impressed with him if he ended up half-dead because of a few goblins.

Her three-year-old niece had beaned a goblin with a pot lid the last time they came through to steal things. A well-armed hero was more than able to face down a pack, even alone.

“No,” he chuckled, and rubbed his chest in memory. “No, it turned out that they were working for a necromancer up north. He’s not a bad sort if you don’t mind the necromancy.”

“Alright,” Raeca was beginning to get confused. “So not the goblins, and not the necromancer. Something stabbed you proper, and close enough for you to get here without dying.”

“There are some ruins up the mountain from here,” he told her sheepishly and rubbed a hand through his hair. It was wet, and he must have taken time to wash before coming to see her. “The necromancer told me there was some interesting old magic. Magic that may even predate me. So I went to look and… I may have misjudged slightly when I decided to try the stairs.”

It was so absurd that Raeca stopped to stare at him in disbelief. “You got stabbed, almost through the heart, by stairs?”

“No,” he said uncomfortably. “I can heal from a fall, and generally stairs don’t stab me, no matter how old they are. No, I fell onto some old metal. The most ignoble stabbing I’ve ever had.”

Raeca had to laugh, and he chuckled along with her, so he probably wasn’t offended. “You got stabbed by stairs.”

“I got stabbed by stairs,” he said with a grin, and leaned back on his stool, a row of neatly-capped jars of balm on the counter beside him. “It was sheer bad luck and my own poor judgement. Frankly, it was nice not to get stabbed by someone for once.”

“I don’t think stabbing is ever nice,” Raeca said dryly and wiped her hands before gathering the jars into a basket for the market later. “But I suppose I haven’t been stabbed all that much.”

“I have. This wasn’t my favorite, but it was better than having to keep fighting after.”

That… that was sort of heartbreaking. There was a distant look in his eyes that spoke of horrors that had survived… or worse, hadn’t survived.

The memories lingered, even if death wasn’t permanent.

“Well,” Raeca said, and braced her basket on her hip. “As your healer, I’m going to have to insist you keep the stabbing to a minimum.”

“Well, if my healer insists,” he laughed, and the old memories drifted back to the shadows where they belonged. Carefully, he leveraged himself to his feet. “Can I go to the market with you, or am I confined to the house?”

He should probably go lay down, but Raeca doubted he actually would, and it would probably be better to keep him under her eye.

“You are not carrying anything,” she pointed a finger at him meaningfully. He blinked and eyed her menacing finger like it might actually be dangerous. “Not one single thing.”

“As my healer commands,” he agreed, and held up his hands peaceably. “Lead the way.”