After Times of Tender Agony: Ch. 17

A Stranger in the Forest

Notes:

AND NOW WE INTRODUCE...an OC :DDD

I love this OC. I didn't really have a specific opinion on him when I first created him, but I've gotten really attached to him throughout this story lol (I hope you like him too <3)

*****

Something seemed off that morning, though Jebsun Brescia* hadn’t quite managed to put his finger on it. He had spent a good deal of the night at the home of a widow whose sick daughter and missing son and cat-in-labor had sent her into a panic. Jesbun certainly didn’t blame her for her worry, and considering the circumstances, some of it was reasonable. He had lost about a half a night’s sleep, as had his horse, Daire, because of it, but such “infirmities” were easily remedied by work and time in a stall. The stall was for his horse, of course, and working always kept him awake.**

The lack of sleep wasn’t the odd thing about the day, though, and come to think of it, Jebsun wasn’t even sure it was about the day itself. Something about Glipwood forest unsettled him—though, in truth, it always unsettled him with its odd array of man-eating creatures, and he never went in unless he was searching for and gathering medicinal roots, herbs, and plants—more so than usual. 

Jebsun pulled back on Daire’s reins, and as the trot slowed to a walk and then a halt, he shifted his attention toward the trees and grasses and undergrowth and falling leaves and half-choked stream. Nothing looked as though it was out of the ordinary and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Dismounting with practiced ease, he grabbed hold of Daire’s reins and, keeping her close, left the dirt road leading back to town. Despite his dislike of the forest, he had spent a good deal of time on this portion of it during the summer, collecting herbs and leaves to preserve; no nasty dips or catches in the ground hid themselves. Daire would be alright for a brief search. 

He stood just inside the wood, now, and leaves crunched beneath his feet, the orange on the trees not quite as vibrant as it would be later that day when the sun shone brightest. Jebsun scanned the scene, set his eyes on each part of it one at a time, tree-leaves, ordinary, tree-trunks, ordinary, crunchy leaves, ordinary, ground, ordinary and stuffed with leaves, sky, ordinary, underbrush, as ordinary as it can be, stream, ordin—

He stopped, and his mouth parted a little. Daire’s reins slipped from his hand, and he crept forward cautiously, getting closer and closer to the stream, closer and closer to the something laying in it.

“Hello?” he called out before he got too close, just in case it was some sort of animal that wanted warning. It didn’t stir and therefore likely wasn’t an animal, but if it was, it was an odd-looking one. From where he stood the thing looked…strange. What he could see was dark reds and browns and other shades of the same sort, looking a bit like the fall leaves, yet not quite enough for the perfect camouflage. 

When he had finally come near it, though, Jebsun felt his stomach knot with uneasiness. He crouched, hand hovering over the thing that really wasn’t a thing—it was a person, a boy, it looked like, a wounded boy wearing a soaked, tattered, stained—was that blood?—shirt, a semi-flayed, semi-healed back, horrible bruising everywhere, several jagged, cruel wounds on his right leg that were loosely and a burning fever, even though he lay in cold water. 

Leaving him there was out of the question and never even crossed Jebsun’s mind. He was a doctor; that simply wasn’t an option. In an instant, he had gingerly pulled the boy out of the water and gently taken his shirt off. A soaking wet shirt was more likely to augment his vulnerability to illness, and Jebsun easily replaced it with his own cloak.

After figuring out the least painful way of carrying him, in terms of aggravating wounds, Jebsun picked the boy up and cradled him in his arms like he would a small child. Perhaps what surprised him the most was how little the boy weighed—concerningly little—and a thousand questions ran through his mind, questions about where the boy had come from, what had happened to him, this accompanied by all sorts of thoughts and theories that weren’t appropriate in the moment. 

“Daire, come,” Jebsun said softly before whistling, and as he walked back onto the road, Daire followed. “Good girl, now don’t move,” he murmured, more out of need for words than instruction. Daire wouldn’t move, he knew. 

As she stood still, Jebsun hoisted the boy onto her, knowing the far-too-little amount of weight would barely affect her. The boy groaned as he did so, and Jebsun prayed he would stay asleep, not because he didn’t want signs of potential lucidity, but because he didn’t want to handle hysterics out in the middle of nowhere. Not that he couldn’t handle hysterics—and he was certainly planning on it when the time came—but the middle of the country was not a safe place for such a thing.

Mounting Daire and stabilizing the boy as well as he could at the same time, Jebsun already found his mind on half a dozen flabbit-trails of thoughts, and they were multiplying like…well, flabbits. 

“Stop it,” he muttered under his breath as he pulled the boy close, grabbed the reins, and pressed his heels into Daire’s flank. “At least wait until we’re on our way.” As much as he would like to speculate what had happened, it wasn’t the time for it, and neither was the trip back. That was the sort of thing he should save for later, after he had tended to the boy’s wounds.

It seemed it would be quite a while before that happened, though, since he feared a trot would jostle his passenger—and patient, though technically he hadn’t done anything to the boy yet, so he was still more of a passenger—to the point at which it would aggravate his wounds, and a canter, though faster, was painful if one wasn’t moving correctly with the horse. 

So a fast walk it was, a walk during which Jebsun became increasingly more aware of the boy’s rising fever—it seemed the cool stream had kept it down, and without that he might not even be alive. Not to mention the fact that he could feel it through his cloak was frightfully concerning—and labored breathing and dreadful gauntness and the number of wounds—why were there so many?

No one bothered greeting him when he finally came into town, even though several were on the streets, and he thanked the Maker for it. Glipwood was a fine place, the people relatively friendly, but ever since the entire population was displaced during the Wingfeather War, they had become wary and untrusting. Chances were the Shoosters would have said hello had they seen him, but neither Addie nor Joe had decided to step out of the Only Inn at that time, thank the Maker. He’d rather not offer an explanation for something he didn’t yet understand. 

Jebsun had practiced in Glipwood several years before—eight, perhaps?—but had left after Fangs got under his skin one too many times.  It was just a small town on the edge of a stand of cliffs where the sea dragons passed through every year on Dragon Day, but Jebsun preferred it that way. He had tried Lamendron—hated it; the people were too demanding—attempted an outpost called Fort Dwid—one too many unsettlingly near-deaths there—before finally re-stumbling into Glipwood, in such a way that it seemed almost as though the Maker had wanted it.

His practice was on Main Street—next to what had formerly been Books N’ Crannies and was now simply “the Bookshop”—his apartments above it, the little stable for Daire attached. He dismounted and gently slid the boy off her back before entering it, then opened the stable door and juggled the boy at the same time. Nickering, Daire walked in out of habit and waited inside patiently, watching him, as if trying to figure out what he was going to do. 

Jebsun, still cradling the boy, bit his lip and looked around at the rather unhelpfully barely-occupied streets and half-alive storefronts. Daire couldn’t just stay tacked, but he didn’t dare leave the boy alone in his office. “Zig,” he called out, aiming his voice at the open upper-story window of the Bookshop. The family who owned it had a little boy who was often eager to offer assistance. “Zig, I’ve got a job for you, and I’ll pay you for it.”

A second later, a blond-headed boy popped his head out the window. “What’s it, Mr. Jebsun? And what’re ya carryin’?”

Jebsun shook his head. “A new patient, Zig. But I need you to untack Daire, alright? Can you do that?”

“Sure, Mr. Jebsun!” Zig said eagerly. “An’ you can pay me later, if ya like.”

Smiling, Jebsun nodded. “Wonderful. Thank you, Zig. Please hurry, though. I don’t want Daire to have to wait much longer.”

And I don’t want this boy to have to wait much longer either, he thought worriedly as he closed the stable door before carrying his patient—still not technically a patient, but passenger didn’t really make sense anymore—to one of the back rooms of his practice, stocked with whatever he would need, including a cot. 

He sat down on it, the boy still in his arms. The back wounds concerned him, especially the glaringly red ones, and he wanted as little wait on them as possible. Normally if this was the case—yes, he had treated a few whipping cases in the past—he would position his patients prone, but he was worried that would restrict and worsen the breathing problem. 

Yet…it seemed that would be the only option to really do a decent scan of the boy. Sighing, Jebsun changed his position, removed his cloak from the boy's shoulders, laid him face-down, sure to turn his head so he could breathe, and made a mental note to keep him on his side as much as possible. 

A spigot he had tinkered with allowed him water in whichever room he had bothered attaching the piping to, and with it he pumped cool water into a bowl, wetted a cloth, and began simultaneously cooling and cleaning the boy as best as he could without being intrusive. A surprising layer of dirt and dried blood coated his body, the latter not quite so much as the former, but still a concerning amount, and far too many bruises, some of which he originally thought were dirt, painted his face. As he re-wetted the cloth and gently wiped it against the boy’s burning neck, Jebsun whispered, “Who did this to you?” There was, of course, no reply.

It took time to dress and treat—as best he could—all the wounds, not to mention the leg wounds which, on further examination, looked as though they had come from some sort of jagged knife. Those, too, were infected, and even as he took care of them, he had a feeling he would need to get rid of the infected tissue later. If he didn’t need to, he would rather not, though. 

When he had bandaged every wound, Jebsun sat back and breathed out slowly, his hands together as if in prayer and pressed against his lips. He looked at the boy, recalling everything he had noted as he worked. Though he wasn’t very tall, his patient was very nearly an adult. Based on a number of old scars on the boy’s thighs, shoulders, cheeks, and chest, it was quite possible the stunted height and gauntness was from some sort of abuse that had been going on for quite some time. The sandy hair framing a pain-ridden, horribly bruised and beaten face hadn’t been washed for who knew how long, and that only seemed to add to his belief that the boy hadn’t been taken care of properly. And speaking of color, the boy was far paler than he had originally expected, to the point at which he was concerned. His patient was in dreadful health, that was certain, and how long physical recovery would take, he wasn’t certain. There was an odd sort of familiarity in the boy’s face, but Jebsun couldn’t quite place it.

A sudden cry elicited from the boy and he shifted stiffly, his eyes flying open—grey-green—filled with pain, darting about, likely not really seeing anything. Jebsun came closer quickly, resting his hand on his patient’s head. “Shh,” he hushed gently, “You’re alright. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you.” 

The boy’s eyes flickered toward his face for a moment in panic, held his gaze far more intently than Jebsun would have thought capable for someone in his state, then blinked shut as he relaxed again. Those eyes…he recognized those eyes.

Jebsun bowed his head, sighing in regards to the other recovery he was more concerned about. Scratch that, he was equally concerned about them. Physically, he was simply concerned about a few of the lash marks and the leg wound, but even those he hoped would be fine. In terms of mental wounds, though? Psychological? Whatever had tormented his patient was the sort of thing that could eat a person alive, destroy them. It would be relived over and over and over again, and time might heal it or it might not. Connection with one person, one special person, could help, and as much as Jebsun was willing to be that person for this boy, it was not his decision, but his patient’s.

They would cross that bridge when they came to it. For now, though, the boy needed his fever broken, he needed water, food, he needed care. “And a name,” Jebsun whispered as he covered his patient with a thin sheet. “You need a name. I hope you’ll give me something to work with, soon.”

*****

Notes:

*I've had his first name for months, but I was stuck on a last name. My sister and I opened my copy of Dante's Divine Comedy and stared at a random character's last name (or location of birth, idk) and it happened to be Brescia. I hope Jebsun likes his new last name 😂

**This woman and her children and her cat and kittens have absolutely NOTHING to do with the story. They will not come into it again.....................................wait-

Hold that.

I first introduced Jebsun in the last story in my other AtE series. In Rather than Resenting, he was, as in this, the doctor. And also probably an INTJ 😅 He is MEANT to be an INTP now, though who knows whether or not that was actually successful. Either way, he's now a character and is slowly becoming my favorite OC....