Darkness. Cold, wet darkness.
Allan's eyes snapped open, and pain exploded through him like a wildfire, burning away every coherent thought. His scream tore through the ravine, echoing against stone walls and rising up to the sky.
His arms lay twisted at unnatural angles, bones jutting through skin like grotesque, jagged knives. Blood seeped from open wounds, staining the water beneath him a dark, inky red.
The puddle — that damned puddle. It was shallow, no deeper than a few inches, but it had broken his fall. Instead of shattering his skull against the rocks, he'd plunged face-first into the murky water.
But everything else... everything else had broken.
Allan's breaths came in ragged gasps, each one sending fresh waves of agony crashing through his ribs. He could feel it — the sharp edges of bones grinding against each other with every shuddering breath. His right leg was bent backward, the foot dangling like a limp, useless rag. His left knee jutted sideways, blood streaming down his thigh in pulsing rivulets.
"Oh God... Oh God..." he whimpered, tears mixing with sweat and grime. "Help... Someone..."
But his voice echoed back to him, empty and hollow. There was no one. Just the ravine walls and the water and the cold, uncaring sky.
Allan's chest heaved, pain ripping through him with each shallow breath. He tried to move his left arm — the less mangled one — but even that slight twitch sent a fresh surge of agony lancing through his shoulder. He sobbed, the sound raw and broken, his tears hot against his dirt-streaked cheeks.
"Mom..." he choked, his voice trembling. "Mom, please... it hurts... it hurts so much..."
No one answered. The only response was the soft, incessant dripping of water from somewhere above, each drop a mocking metronome counting down his final moments.
Was this it? Was this what he had been spared for? To fall from a cliff and die like a crushed insect, broken and bleeding, unable to even move?
His mind spun. The village. The screaming. The soldier's blood on his hands. The noble's sneer, the crossbow bolts slamming into his body. The fall — the sickening sensation of plummeting, the wind roaring in his ears.
What was the point?
"Why?" Allan croaked, his voice a cracked, pitiful rasp. "Why me? What did I do? Is this... is this just some sick joke? Am I... just some god's entertainment?"
Silence.
Allan squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face, his chest hitching with sobs. The pain was too much. Too much. He just wanted it to stop. He just wanted to die.
Then, a voice. Deep, gravelly, and far too calm for the hell he was in.
"I can't believe you survived a fall that far, young man."
Allan's eyes snapped open, his head jerking to the side despite the stabbing pain that shot through his neck.
There, standing a few feet away, was a wiry old man. His skin was leathery and tanned, his hair a wild mess of silver and gray. A straw hat sat atop his head, casting a shadow over sharp, dark eyes. He held a fishing pole over one shoulder, a bucket of fish dangling from the other.
The man stared down at Allan, his expression unreadable, as if he were looking at a stray dog that had wandered into his path.
Allan's lips trembled. His chest rose and fell with ragged, shuddering breaths. "Please..." he gasped, tears and snot mingling. "Please... help me..."
The old man's eyes narrowed, his gaze drifting over Allan's shattered limbs, the blood pooling beneath him. Then, he crouched down, setting the bucket of fish beside him. The scent of fresh, raw fish mixed with the coppery tang of blood.
"Well," the old man said, his voice as rough as gravel. "Ain't that a sight?"
Allan whimpered, his vision swimming. "Please... please... it hurts..."
The old man's expression didn't change. He simply leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting. "Tell me, boy. What's a dead man like you doing surviving a fall like that?"
Allan's sobs echoed through the ravine, each shaky breath a ragged plea for mercy. The old man remained crouched by his side, the fishing pole balanced over one shoulder, his dark eyes sharp and assessing.
Allan's gaze wavered, tears streaking down his dirt-smeared face. "I... I lived in Chicago, with my mom." he rasped, voice breaking. "I was just a student. Twenty-four. I-I had cancer."
The old man said nothing, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his straw hat.
Allan swallowed, his throat parched, every word scraping against raw nerves. "I spent months in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. Couldn't move. Could barely breathe. They said it was hereditary. My dad died the same way. And I thought... I thought I was dead too. But then... I woke up here."
The old man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And then?"
Allan's jaw clenched. "I don't know. I woke up in the forest. There was a village nearby. It was burning."
The old man's brow furrowed.
"There were soldiers," Allan continued, the memories crashing through him like tidal waves. "They were slaughtering everyone. Women. Kids. There was a man... a noble, I think. Young. He wore a medal — two eagles with a sword between them. He... he told them to kill me. Then I ran and... and fell."
The old man's expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened. "Ahhh..." he said, the sound long and drawn out, as though it confirmed something he already knew.
Allan's breath came in shallow pants, his whole body quaking. "Please... please, help me. I can't move. I can't—"
The old man stood, adjusting his straw hat with one hand. "You're lucky, you know."
"L-Lucky?" Allan's lips trembled.
"If you hadn't fallen here, you'd be dead. This ravine is the only shortcut to the river," the old man said, pointing a bony finger to a distant light at the far end of the ravine. "And my house is just over there."
Allan's eyes widened. "Please... take me there. I can't... I can't move..."
The old man scratched at his stubbly chin, eyes drifting back to Allan's mangled body. "I'll help you," he said finally. "But only if you tell me more about this 'Chicago' place."
Allan's mind swirled. What? Chicago? He was dying, his bones shattered, and this old man wanted a story?
"I'll tell you... I swear, just please..." Allan's voice cracked, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Help me..."
The old man nodded as if satisfied. He stood, his knees popping as he rose, and scanned the area. Allan watched him move around, shuffling through the debris scattered along the ravine floor.
Minutes passed. Allan's breaths became shallower, each one a struggle against the pain clawing through him. He was fading. The world around him started to dim, the edges of his vision blurring.
Then the old man returned, dragging a rotting wooden plank behind him, the wood splintered and gray. He held a length of frayed rope in one hand. Without a word, he set them down beside Allan.
"Hold your breath," the old man said, crouching down. "This'll hurt a bit."
Before Allan could protest, the old man slid his hands under Allan's twisted body. Pain flared through every nerve ending, searing white-hot. Allan screamed, his back arching as bones shifted beneath his skin, grinding against one another like shards of glass.
"Ghhh...!" Allan's jaw clenched, tears streaming down his face. "Stop... stop, please—!"
"Can't," the old man grunted. He lifted Allan, muscles straining as he maneuvered him onto the plank. Each movement sent fresh bolts of agony ricocheting through Allan's body. Allan's vision swam, black spots dancing before his eyes.
The old man worked quickly, tying the rope around Allan's torso, securing his arms against his sides. The knot was tight, too tight, squeezing his broken ribs until Allan thought he might pass out.
"Almost done," the old man muttered, sweat beading on his brow. He yanked the rope taut, knotting it against the plank.
Allan sucked in a shuddering breath, his teeth gritted so hard they threatened to crack. The world was a haze of pain and exhaustion, the scent of fish and mud clogging his nostrils.
The old man rose, wiping his hands on his ragged pants. He grabbed the end of the rope and pulled, the plank scraping against the ground, sending fresh jolts of agony stabbing through Allan's nerves.
Allan bit down on his lip, stifling his screams. Blood filled his mouth.
"Hang in there, boy," the old man said, voice calm, almost casual. "You're a long way from that Chicago place now."
Allan's vision blurred, the world swimming around him as the old man dragged him toward the distant light. Toward whatever fate awaited him at the end of the ravine.