You were supposed to have passed out in a forest. Which is why you’re now expecting to see trees above you. But there are none.
Aaaggghhh! The pain!
You must be by the river—you can hear the water crashing.
You try to turn to your right even as you’re lying on the ground, but the incredible pain is taking away every ounce of strength you need to make the move. You look sideways, frustrated, and now pass out.
Wait!
Was that a black cloak?
With tears in your eyes you look sideways again: it is a black cloak!
The Roseman!
Your hands, despite your weapon, scramble for a weapon to hold. Where’s the sword?
Your left hand got hold of a sharp rock, but now, of all times, you hesitate: he must have been watching you for some time, maybe just waiting for you to wake up. But why? I should play dead.
Heck. It’s now or never.
The rock flies wobblingly into the air, and it seems it just might really hit him.
A sword.
Out of nowhere a woman has drawn the blade to deflect your missile. And she succeeds, your rock ending up in the river.
And what a drop-dead gorgeous woman this is: a rather pale complexion, with curly hair and almond eyes, a straight nose and rosy lips. Her dress quite hugs her figure from the neck down to the hips, from which thereon her ruffled skirt would give no further details.
She walks to your side, and puts a foot on your chest. For a moment you would have wanted to take a peek inside her skirt; a little breeze could help…
But then she presses on.
“I’m wearing pantaloons, thank you very much for the concern,” a girlish voice spoke. She now digs into the ground with her sword, just right beside your neck.
“He with you?” you resignedly ask.
“Ain’t that obvious?”
“Why didn’t I see you when we were fighting?”
“Because dealing with you was his job. Now get up.”
You try to sit up, but then again you cringe in pain. And then you remember why it hurt so bad.
You’ve got wings.
The woman had left to approach the Roseman. She whispered a few words, to which none the Roseman expressed anything.
She returns, not to help, but to whack their hostage’s head with her sword hilt.
***
Sandy woke up again, this time in a room. In a bed. With blankets. And bandages. That last blow to the head was still aching.
Where am I?
He tried to sit again. In doing so he placed his left hand upon the bed in such a manner that it would support his torso’s ascent, like a piston pushing the opposite direction.
But in doing so he unthinkably placed his hand where his wing was.
As his back rose, the wing, almost severed from a wound dealt by the Roseman, completely tore off.
Sandy could hardly breathe.
A cry rang out of the house.
And townsfolk rushed into old Raphael’s shack.
When they charged in, they saw Sandy inconsolable – and uncontrollable. He was rolling on the bed, pressing on his wings like some baker’s roller. Blood was everywhere.
Then someone oh so loudly suggested, “Call Dr. Ansashi!”
***
Ansashi was treating a toddler with a cough when a man came running to his clinic. “Sandy’s been found and is bleeding inside Raphael’s house!”
Raphael’s house? Wasn’t Raphael suspected to be a Unionist? Ansashi thought. He had an intense dislike for the poor man, but then he hated all poor people. But especially this rascal, whose debts to Ansashi the doctor never forgot. All poor men hate the Republic; let them be beheaded for their uselessness and their disloyalty!
Suddenly Ansashi had abandoned the toddler, who was also of a poor family. He told the mother, “Just get your child to drink tea with a pinch of salt every day for the next seven days. Now get out!” He pushed them out, closed his clinic for the day, and bringing his surgical apparatus he dragged his great weight into an old enemy’s abode.
Lord Okamoto’s going to reward me again, Ansashi thought. Run, Ansashi, drag your fat ass into the town… ‘tis worth another three gold coins! An angel for a patient!
