In a moment that felt like eternity Ellen saw the man fall to his knees. The anguish on his face as he begged for help. Sir Ivan leaned over the man, shaking him by his collar to make sense of his words but they poured out in a torrent that didn’t make sense. 

Ellen froze in place, the lovely meal that had turned into yet another nightmare. She dropped the sticky chicken thigh onto her plate, a sour taste rose in the back of her throat. Ragna sat next to her, also frozen to the seat of her chair.

It was a mess. The picture of the man on the train came to her, so calm in his last moments. Ellen took a deep breath and forced herself to stand, her knees wobbled under her but she walked towards the man. Sir Ivan had released him and was barking at him to take hold of himself. 

Ellen ignored Sir Ivan and took the man’s hand between hers, he was cold and shaking.

“What’s wrong?”

Tears welled in his eyes and he wiped at them with the back of his other hand, smearing grime across his face.

“He’s in the woods,” he snivelled, “bleeding.”

“Can you take me there?”

He nodded and tried to get up from the floor but his knees gave way and he fell.

“Don’t bother. I know where they’ve been working and I’ll take you,” Sir Ivan said before turning to Ragna, “get any capable men to head out as well, we will most likely need help,” he then rushed out the door and Ellen followed as swiftly as her legs would carry her.

They rushed out of the grand house, round to the side and over a field where the sun baked their heads as they ran. A trail led into a dense forest and they followed it. Now and again Ellen tripped on a root or branch, but pulled herself up and continued. Adrenalin rushed through her veins, giving her the energy to keep on for longer than she would normally have. The trees thinned, stumps taking their place. She heard someone moan. They both rushed towards the sound.

Ellen had imagined a spray of blood pooling around a dying man. A man lay on the ground, very much alive. He was pressing his bloody shirt against his thigh. His face was pale, contorted with pain. An axe painted red with blood lay close to him. He must have accidentally cut himself, though how was a mystery. 

Sir Ivan had gathered an air of calm about him. “You’re doing well, keep the pressure on,” he said in a soft voice. He turned to Ellen, “once we move him back to the manor you can look at his wound and treat it as best you can.”

Ellen hoped beyond hope it wasn’t deep, that it would be enough to clean it and bandage it well. That much she could probably do. She stood there helpless, feeling her heart thump its fast rhythm. It was lucky that he seemed to have some sense since he had thought of keeping the pressure on the wound. Of course people had taken care of wounds for thousands, no, tens of thousands of years. That they would have some common knowledge here wasn’t at all strange when she thought about it.

Moments passed and became minutes, it was difficult to look at the man. What if he couldn’t hold the pressure for longer? When would others arrive? Sir Ivan had gone down on his knees next to the man with a look of concern on his face. There was almost a tenderness there, maybe his hard exterior was just a show. Maybe he cared more than he let on. 

Ellen started when she heard a rustle through the bushes and three men appeared, one was a servant from the manor carrying a bundle of cloth. The other two were unfamiliar, they carried a long stick each over their shoulders. They all took in the scene.

“Lars, you idiot,” one of them mumbled.

“Not… me,” the injured man said through gritted teeth, his eyes staring furiously.

“Get to your task,” Sir Ivan commanded, getting off the ground and walking towards the newly arrived men.

They got to it. Putting together a stretcher and laying it next to Lars. He screamed as they lifted him. A shiver ran down Ellen’s spine at the sound. 

How they got back to the house she hardly knew as her thoughts seemed to run through all the possibilities in front of her, but suddenly they were there. Sir Ivan led them indoors through the hall and into a small room with a bed where they placed him, stretcher and all. A whimper escaped him.

Ellen knew it was her turn now, that they would expect to use her witch powers or whatever it was they expected.

“Get hot water, the strongest alcohol you have and any clean fabric that can be tied around his wound,” she said.

The time to think in the woods had been valuable to steel herself for what they would expect of her. If it looked terrible, she would ask if she could have a needle and thread, but she hoped she would not have to stitch him up. Really it might be worse than letting it be, she couldn’t be sure to sterilize a thread properly.

The servant who had run off at her command reappeared with a large glass bottle containing an amber colored liquid, a glass, a small copper kettle with warm water and some old but clean sheets.

Lars lay on the bed glassy eyed, still holding pressure on the wound. Ellen kneeled next to the bed, and let out a long breath. It was time to examine him.