It felt as if he were struck by lightning. He was jolted awake by the horrendous feeling that roiled on his stomach. It wasn't a pleasant feeling like laughter, nor was it similar to the nervousness he felt when he saw what he once considered the love of his life.

It was the bile that brewed on his body and spewed out. He was a dragon, spewing burning mesh that had churned on his stomach. His throat was lit aflame. Another round of vomit poured out to the floor, soiling the sheets.

There was a hand that rubbed his back as he heaved. This is torture, he thought. His eyes stung as he hung on the edge of the bed. It wasn’t long before he understood that he was not home.

That didn’t have much effect on anything, however. His nausea recurred. He felt dizzy and he lay back down on the bed. “Here.” The voice belonged to his companion. He was given a cup of water.

“Where are we?” Bertram asked, haggard in his look and coarse in his voice. He saw that he was in a bed of dirty white, surrounded by the same colour on the walls. Two small square tables were there adjacent to the beds, one for each of them. On the windowsill were chamomile flowers on the clay pots, swaying softly from the breeze.

“Monastery,” the landgrave answered as he nursed him his drink. Maximillian had to pour more with how much Bertram spilled on himself.

After drinking and still with a groggy head, he asked “What happened?”

Scratching his head, Maximillian whispers to himself “I um… How should I say this?” He raised the undershirt of Bertram and said “You lost too much blood and they had to stitch you up.” He bit his lip, contemplating if he should say it or not. But, he said it, as it was going to be told anyways. “… I also gave you my blood.”

In genuine confusion, Bertram said “What?” It was quite unthinkable. No way was there a moment where 

“It’s a new method the monks used,” the landgrave explained, playing with his fingers.

“How… How did they even?” he asked, both in wonder and in absolute loss on the matter.

“There was a book that had that type of treatment. They’ve mentioned it but I still can’t wrap my head around it,” Maximillian said. 

"That's new…" Before the other could say another word, monks flocked as they smelt the pungent bile that was unattended. A monk, of wide stature and joyous expression came to assess the situation. 

As the monk leaned to the side, seeing the puke that was on the floor, he ordered the rest to "Get a bucket of water and some mint. We don't want to see something vile inside." The monk went to hold the shoulder of Maximillian, saying to him "Tell us the moment this happens."

The other hummed for a reply. Hazy as he may be, with a tired voice, Bertram muttered in a tired voice "Listen to them."

Turning to the monk, he answered both. Upon his lips, Maximillian murmured "I will." Slowly, he was standing up and he asked the monk "What can I do?"

"Have you informed his relatives yet?" the monk asked, his hands on his hip as he awaited for the others. The landgrave sighed, saying afterwards "I did."

"Then you've nothing to do but pray. His health is in the hands of the Lord, Gott above." Before he could complain, he heard from the monk, "It is new, however, that he has nausea after the transfusion..."

The information left the landgrave aghast. "Wha— it hasn't happened before? What do you mean?" His hands were shaking, and quiet was his voice. This— no, surely, it can’t be that they made a mess, right? They’re servants of Gott, surely there’s no reason that the Lord himself would let them make a mess.

Contrasting this, the monk told him "It’s very rare, but most have recovered properly of their own accord. It does not mean that we'll do naught but wait and see. It seems that he’s in a concerning state, however."

Holding their robes for composure, Maximillian cried "I don't wish for my friend to perish yet."

The pregnant pause suffocated him. They kindly pull his hand away. "I swear to you, he won’t be delivered to Gott, not yet.” Another pause and they asked “Would it be fine if you get leeches?"

Furrowed brows were plastered on his face. "... Leeches?"

"Don't be surprised now," he said, arms behind. "You've experienced a leeching."

"No, but wouldn't the procedure yesterday be in vain?" 

The monk made a deep sigh. "It’ll be fine, trust us on this." Although their exchange was short, both heard another round of vomit poured onto the floor. And so, they rushed to their tasks as the patient was phasing in and out of consciousness.

Bertram hyperventilated, heart beating rapidly. Petrified he was, right on his bed. That hooded horse rider, he was here again. O Gott, he was here again! No, no, perhaps… perhaps it wasn’t that horrific figure. Surely, it wasn’t. It mustn’t be so. Bertram looked around, especially so at the windowsill.

Alas, that false hope he held on was for naught. A green, sickly pale steed, right outside, lying down and resting. ‘O Gott,’ he thought. ‘O Gott, why? Why— what did I do? Tell me, Gott, what did I do?!’

The pitch-coloured cloak was nearer. Right on the hallway, betwixt two monks that covered the figure’s frame. That sunny day outside, that peaceful, light palate of the outside surrounded by white stone and crawling vines.

What crawled on Bertram was that fear, that damnable fear that caught him in a snare as he could not breathe properly. With each step from that being, his breaths came faster and faster. He couldn’t even see them properly.

“Bertram,” Maximillian called. The one he was conversing to wasn’t listening— no, he wasn’t hearing him at all. “Bertram,” he said once again, clasping tight on his hand. “Bertram, look at me.”

“I— I can’t.”

“Just this once,” Maximillian pleaded. “Look at me,” he said softly, caressing the back of Betram’s hand.

“I simply can’t,” he replied.

“Why?”

“Because— because that thing is here! He’s there!”

“Bertram, what thing?” Maximillian finally asked. He turned around to see nothing. Not even a person other than an occasional monk wandering around with faeces in a bucket and a thick cloth to cover his nose. In fact, Maximillian himself had to momentarily breathe through his mouth until the waft of shit was gone.

“There’s no one there,” he said.

Bertram shook. He laughed weakly, with manic eyes and shuddered breaths. “I’m not insane, Maxi. I— I know— I know what I see.”

“I’m not calling you insane, Bertram.”

“Then why,” he said softly. “Why can’t you see that— that terrifying person at the door? The— the one with the black cloak, the one with the pale horse, the one that chased us. The one that chased me!” His breathing was making his head hazy. 

Maximillian checked twice, seeing no one of the sort. And he said the same thing. “No one’s there.”

“Mein Gott, why is it that only I see him?!” he cried out, covering his face that had fallen to tears. “Why? Wh— hwa— wat did I do wrong, why is this happening to me?” Bertram curled himself to a ball, and when he tried to wipe away his tears, that figure he was dreading was already inside.

Maximillian rubbed his back in a circular motion. He tried to reassure him as he said “You did nothing wrong. I’m the one who did this to you.”

“No, no, it’s—” That being didn’t stop moving. In Bertram’s head, it was closing near him. His anxious, beating heart and dizzied mind filled with thoughts unbearable had yet again made him heave. Nothing came out other than his pained, tired voice.

Maximillian, concerned for his companion, went and knelt on the bed, facing him. “Bertram, I’m here. Do you— do you need water? I…” He bit his lip, not knowing what to do to aid him at all.

It took time before Bertram took full gasps of air rather than barf it out.  He grasped tight the tunic of Maximillian, head low. “I think— I think I’m fine now,” Bertram told him.

“Clearly you’re not,” he said.

Nodding, Bertram smiled wryly and repeated “Clearly I’m not.” He raised his head, bloodshot eyes that came from wiping his tears staring at dark ones. “Maxi, can we leave? Please?” he said. He was still trying to escape the creature that haunts him so, even when Maximillian had blocked them off.

“No.”

“Please,” he said, arms shaking. “I’m begging you Maxi.”

“You need rest. You know that, Bertram.”