The Heartless

Consciousness returned to me slowly and in pieces, coming and going in a fog of visions and voices that I could never be certain were anything more than hallucinations. When I finally came to, the first thing I noticed was that I felt terrible. The second thing I noticed was that I was in a completely unfamiliar room. The bed I was in was much softer than my cot in Bertrand’s house, and the air smelled faintly of lavender. A bit of natural light crept in through a window with the curtains drawn, and at a small workspace in the corner of the room stood an older woman I’d never seen before, engrossed in whatever she was working on.

“Hello?” I croaked, voice hoarse from disuse.

The woman jolted and spun around; her eyes widened when they met mine.

“Oh, dear, you’re awake!” she exclaimed, pulling up a chair a safe distance from my side. “My name’s Frida. You’re currently in my clinic; I’m the one who patched up the hole in your chest.”

I was suddenly hyperaware of my own vulnerability, and of how incriminating it was that I was even still alive. Frida seemed to realize this, as she placed a hand to her own chest and smiled reassuringly.

“Ah, don’t worry, my dear, you aren’t in Amistadia anymore. This is Verdigris, a Heartless commune northeast of there. You’re among friends here.”

I tried to make sense of what Frida had said as she grabbed a cup of water from the bedside table and held it to my lips. I sipped it tentatively at first, then grabbed the cup for myself and downed it greedily after realizing how dry my throat was.

“How long was I asleep?” I asked, lying back down against the soft mattress.

“About a week,” Frida answered. “I don’t know how long you were out there for, but it’s a miracle you didn’t bleed to death. Soaking wet, no less. You’re lucky to have the best healer around on your side.”

“A miracle, huh?” I repeated glumly, staring at the ceiling.

Frida hummed to herself, taking note of my demeanor.

“Do you care to tell me how you got that stab wound in the first place?” she inquired.

The image of King Brutus falling to the ground with an arrow through his chest replayed in my mind.

“Not particularly.”

“Suit yourself.” Frida shrugged and returned to her workspace, mixing together some sort of herbal solution in a little glass cup.

“My apprentice found you out there in the woods, you know. He isn’t in the best shape, but he managed to carry you a good deal of the way here anyway, bless his soul.” Frida smirked fondly. “Sweet boy. He’s been hysterical, dying to see you ever since. But I told him that you both needed some rest.”

There was frantic knocking on the door that seemed to rattle the entire room, and Frida sighed, muttering what I thought sounded like “speak of the devil.”

“Frida? I heard you talking, is he awake? May I come in?” a voice called from the other side of the door. I startled, pushing myself up on my arms. I knew that voice. It was deeper than I had last heard it, and yet somehow it was unmistakable.

Frida sighed. “Yes, fine, you insolent child. Come on in.”

The door burst open, and every fiber of my being simultaneously froze and breathed a sigh of relief. I wondered if I was dreaming, or perhaps I had died—but the stinging sensation beneath the bandages over my chest told me otherwise. There he was, in the flesh, sporting the same blinding smile he used to flash me every afternoon in the meadow.

My best friend.

“Basil?”

All at once, every muscle in Basil’s body appeared to go slack, as if he had been holding his breath for the last seven years. “It really is you,” he said breathily, feet firmly planted in the doorway. “Gods above, I was afraid I had imagined that it was you.”

Beside me, Frida gaped. “Oh, this is the friend you have been telling me about for years?” she asked incredulously.

And suddenly, Basil was at my bedside, and his arms were around me as he wept into my shoulder. “You idiot,” he cried, voice muffled. “I really thought I’d never see you again.”

My throat was too hoarse to speak, but apparently not too hoarse to cry, though my body was seemingly too weak to produce any tears. I gripped the back of Basil’s shirt in my fists as if to convince myself that he was real.

By the time we both were done crying, my grip had weakened considerably and my tongue felt like cotton in my mouth. Basil pulled back from the hug and placed his hands on my shoulders, studying my face carefully.

But as the shock wore off, I realized my head was swimming.

“Basil, I’m going to faint,” I managed to say before the world pitched sideways. I heard Basil make a small noise of surprise, and then nothing else before my vision went dark and I slipped back into the throes of unconsciousness.

When I woke again, it was dark. There was a small lamp lit on the end table, along with a cup of water and an herbal potion accompanied by a note from Frida to drink it for the pain. I chuckled to myself at the memory of Bertrand’s many potions before downing both the medicine and the water and laying back down. Basil was seated in Frida’s chair by the foot of the bed, leaning forward on the mattress with his head pillowed on his arms, fast asleep. He was going to wake up stiff and sore, but when I tapped him with my blanketed foot, he did not stir, and I didn’t have it in me to interrupt his rest. So I settled into the blankets and shut my eyes. I fell asleep easily, and while it may have been an effect of Frida’s concoction, it was the most peaceful sleep I’d had in many years.