The Unknown Alchemist

Chapter 2 - He wakes

He was on fire. His whole body screamed in pain as he burned and he couldn't move away. They had tied him to a stake and lit him on fire. He tried to break free but couldn't move his arms or legs.

His leg.

His leg was sending flames shooting all over his body. He screamed for help, for someone to save them. He twisted his head looking for Tao. They were just trying to help the humans. Now he was on fire, an offering to the gods.

He tried to move away but the heat persisted, following his every movement. He kicked out and the burning was replaced with a searing pain that broke the dream and brought him back to consciousness.

He cracked his eyes open and saw that he wasn't at the preserve, but in an unfamiliar room. One eye was swollen shut; he couldn't focus on his surroundings.

Have I been captured? A hospital?

Small hands felt his forehead and touched his cheeks. He searched for the source and saw only long brown hair framing a female face.

"Niamh?" he mumbled.

He tried to push himself up but the hands held him still. It wasn't necessary, the pain kept him in place.

"I tried to save Tao. I tried to save him...but the fire...it's too hot. I'm on fire..."

Something cool was placed on his chest and the heat eased. The agony was still there but a wave of calm flowed over him. He fought to open his eye again but the lid was too heavy.

"Niamh, I'm sorry..." he whispered as darkness found him again.
********************
When he woke next, his muscles twitched sending a wave of pain and nausea through him. He was lying on his stomach, his feet sticking out off the end of the bed. He lay still as his eyes adjusted to the light. Without moving he scanned the room to get his bearings and instinctively searched for any threats or objects he could use as weapon.

It was a single room with the bed tucked in the corner, a large stone fireplace on wall to his left, and shelves lining the wall on his right. The shelves were filled with jars and baskets of staples like potatoes and onions, flour, and herbs. On the other side of the fireplace was a bookshelf filled to the brim. A rocking chair rested below the window by the door. A small table with a stool sat in the middle of the room, holding a half-eaten loaf of bread, some cheese, and several open books.

His senses relaxed as he took in the scene and he felt strangely comfortable with the quaintness of the cabin. It was rustic and unfinished, but the door sat square in its frame and the windows were clean and clear of cracks. Through them he could see the sun shining and leaves on the trees trembling in a light breeze.

How long have I been here?

His last memory was of snow.

A pot was simmering over a low fire sending a delicious scent his way and making his stomach growl. But what he really needed was water. His mouth was so dry he could barely swallow and his lips were cracked and raw. He spied a cup and jug on the small bedside table and focused all his energy on reaching for it.

His body was ruined. Every muscle was bruised and sore or burned with cuts and scrapes. He started by wiggling his fingers slightly then managed to lift his hand. The muscles in his back screamed in protest as his shifted his arm to reach for the jug. He sucked in a deep breath and bit down a groan as he stretched out. But his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, so instead of grabbing the cup, he knocked it over, spilling water on the table and floor. He was so desperate for water he brought his shaking hand to his lips and licked off the moisture. But the tease just made him more desperate and he breathed heavily through his teeth as his lifted his torso to get a firm handle on the jug. A wave of nausea passed through him and his vision narrowed as blackness crept in from the sides.