Tristan had made good on his promise to find him his own tent.

It took a few days to settle in but he had nothing to varnish it with. The only things it held underneath its plain white canvas were a bed and a chest at the foot of it. The chest, which remained empty save for the clothes he washed up on the shore of the cove in. He wanted to burn them but hadn’t quite brought himself to do it.

He was dog tired and all he wanted to do was sleep, but sleep never came. Not easily at least. He’d find himself nodding off at breakfast or dinner. Every time he was on the edge of sleep it’s dark wings would come swooping in and trying to envelop him. But fear would catch his throat and he’d jolt awake. Red eyed with delirium he trudged on. People would try to introduce themselves and he couldn’t pay attention. The odd sideways glance from someone at a camp fire he would miss. He became a shell, the walking dead with a heartbeat. He feared that darkness so greatly he only made himself sicker.

Until one young maiden finally took pity on him and slipped him a root that helps sleep come easier, without him knowing or he did know but couldn’t remember. When the glass washed down his throat empty, he sunk into his bed that night and the darkness unfurled and took him into its depths.

He found sleep was easier than he thought it would be.

He didn’t dream which he was thankful for. He had been so afraid of what that darkness would reveal to him that he hadn’t thought about the alternative. But once sleep came he couldn’t get enough of it. He’d wake up to find trays of food at the foot of his bed, sometimes it was cold, other times it was hot like he had just missed whoever brought it. He’d eat it regardless, thankful to fill his belly with something. And once he was full, his eye lids would swoon, his head would hit the pillow and sleep would find him again. And when he awoke, he’d find his old dishes gone and a new meal in its place.

This repeated for the better part of a week.

He could feel his strength returning. Not to what it once was, but enough to get out of bed and make it to breakfast. He didn’t look quite so hallow anymore, he was still thin and gaunt, it would take weeks to pack on the pounds and then regain muscle. At least he looked less sick. He ate, quietly by himself. Tristan, the only face he seemed to know was absent this morning. He crumbled the bread and fitted in his mouth chewing thoughtfully like it was the best thing he ever tasted. Afterwards he found a pair of sheers and gave himself and haircut that wasn’t quite as bad as he thought it was going to be. His shoulder length auburn hair had returned to its short ‘I just got out of bed’ look. He felt more like himself looking in that mirror then he had since he returned. Then he opted for a shower, which he needed. He could smell the reek on him and wondered why no one had said anything to him but secretly glad they hadn’t at the same time.

He then took the time to finally get his wits about the camp, a place he still didn’t quite understand. There was a lot he didn’t know about what happened over the last several years. He’d piece it all together eventually. By the way his cousin had spoken to him, none of it was good. And despite wanting to know all the details, he was going to take advantage of being blissfully unaware while he recovered.

You need time to heal.

The words replayed in his head over and over again. He was trying to heed his advice. He was no good to Tristan or even himself until he was well. He didn’t want to go digging in the empty years of his life trying to find out what happened to him, at least not yet.

Grayson was crossing a small clearing, when the clank of swords caught his attention. He moved towards it, being pulled by the familiar sound and the memory of long days, bruises, and aches he'd feel in places he didn't even know could ache. He found them a short distance away, several men and woman training in swordsmanship, revisiting stances, learning evasion techniques, how to properly attack an opponent and defend oneself. He sat on a fallen rotten log, watching them for a while. He’d ring his writs, shuffle his hands through his hair, and scrub his face as he watched anxiously. Every of his being wanted to pick up a sword and join them but he couldn’t, not yet.

You need time to heal.

He sighed, and slumped down, mentally defeated, with his back resting against the tree. It was midafternoon, the hottest part of the day, and they were wrapping up for the afternoon. But he continued to sit there, even when the clearing emptied of bodies he sat there. An itch in the back of his mind told him he should go find Era but he didn’t scratch at it. Instead, the auburn haired boy with blue eyes and a tawny smile sat there and contemplated whether or not to pick up one of the swords resting in the grass while no one was watching.

Grayson