The sudden surge of adrenaline immediately made him sit bolt upright, and it was only after several deep, long breaths that he was able to calm himself. He kept focused on the fact he was no longer in danger, although this was made harder with the constant feelings of peril that had been incessantly gnawing on his consciousness for the past several weeks.
The distant sounds of battle didn't make it easier, either.
He struggled to his feet to change out his sweat-soaked clothes, and tried to rub some feeling back into his clammy skin. Although it was slowly beginning to regain function, his disabled arm made the task more difficult than he was accustomed to. He looked around searchingly for a nurse, but none were within sight: presumably they were all dealing with much more serious cases from the battlefront.
He signed quietly to himself, and collapsed back onto the bed only half-dressed, feeling drained. One of the unexpected downsides of being granted a private room, he supposed. Given the contributions he and his comrades had made, the Queen had ordered the absolute best medical care to deal with his wounds. Wounds that had been serious enough that when he had finally consciously looked at them, he had almost passed out from shock.
He was grateful, of course, for the attention. He was just still uncertain of whether he deserved them.
Finally sensing his movement, Knack awoke, and peered at him with a head canted. The custom battle-armor, which had been cleaned by a helpful nurse for "sanitary reasons" and was no longer covered with the grime and untold horrors of battle, lay next to the vigilant ferret. Knack quickly realized nothing was amiss, and seemed to easily fall back into a light sleep.
The man known as Hans Nacht to his companions gave a wry smile. He still was uncertain of what had come over his longtime companion, what had prompted his sudden transformation into a surprisingly agile warrior. But then again, little of what had happened recently made any sense at all. He felt like he had been swept up in a current that he himself could not see the end of, moved by powers greater than he imagine possible.
Across the room, his possessions lay scattered across a low table. They had been placed there when he originally entered the hospital, and had not been disturbed since. He felt an almost primordial fear of the items, and still felt fundamentally incapable of coming to grips with what they represented. He knew he would eventually have to deal with them, and their implications, but today was clearly not the day.
He tossed and turned for a while, trying to find a position that least bothered his arm. It took longer than expected. Eventually he fell into a restless sleep.
In his dreams the ring turned slowly, emitting a faint, pale light that seemed to carry not-quite-understood whispers. In darkness the ring twirled, center of its own universe, and he was forced to watch, unblinking, as it attempted to tell a tale that he could never quite understand. Slowly other items drifted into view and orbited around the ring: an ornate necklace, a fragile comb, a foreign sword, a seemingly normal rock, and an ancient tome in a foreign tongue. Somehow, these seemingly simple objects sent a sense of abject terror into Hans, and he bolted awake, again covered in a cold sweat.
He swore for some time, in several languages.
His eyes turned involuntarily to the scar along his left hand, and he couldn't help but imagine the marks on his other arm would soon be far more obvious and gruesome than this simple old wound. If only he had known that acquiring the ring and pursuing the supposed artifacts would have cost this much in the long run.
He supposed it was worth it: apparently he had helped to save the Mionn and the surrounding area. He still wasn't sure, if given the chance, he would do it again. But given how much he had cursed the identifying mark of the scar on his left hand, he certainly hadn't expected to eventually receive something far worse.
And of course, even ignoring the physical toll of his quest to find the pieces, he hadn't even faced the mental cost. For someone such as he, to be lost in a role he himself had created was perhaps the ultimate irony. Hans had taken a life of his own, and the persona so strong that he felt entirely uncertain whether it could properly be called one. For someone who believed in very little, to be faced with such obvious and undeniable signs of a power above was… well, he wasn't sure what he felt. His confidence was broken, perhaps forever so.
Something quietly in the back of his mind whispered to him. He wasn't entirely sure whether the voice was his own, and this too terrified him. Nonetheless, he couldn't quite make out what was being said. He closed his eyes, and strained to listen to his own mind.
"Confidence may be shattered. Conviction can be ruined. But the steel of faith may withstand any and all trials, and the fires of tribulations shall only make it stronger."
He sighed quietly. It sounded an awful lot like one of the hundreds of quotes he had read in that damned book, but he had read so many that he was unsure whether it was an actual passage or something that just sounded a lot like one.
He was also unsure of how much truth it held.
He pondered what the future held for him. Presumably if the war was still raging he would be expected to join, and fight once again for Mionn and the bog. The thought filled him with disgust; he had had enough fighting for a lifetime. But what other choice did he have? With the all-too-obvious ruin of his arm, he would never again be able to disappear within the civilized strata of Mionn's society, and what's more, with his status as a supposed 'hero' it even hardly made sense. He could enjoy such company easily, and he was sure the invitations to balls, festivals, and the like would come flowing towards 'Hans.' But such thoughts held exactly zero appeal. Where was the fun, where was the challenge?
He could almost feel the "holy" book calling to him across the room. It was precisely the chain of thought he had been avoiding so fervently for the past handful of days. He was paralyzed at the thought of researching this strange religion any further, yet he would be lying if he said another part of him was not equally curious. Plus, it would mean leaving all of this behind, a thought that held much appeal indeed.
Besides, he could stop whenever he wanted, right?
…Right?
Knack gave a contented purr from his corner, and rolled over to his other side. It almost seemed like too much of the coincidence; Knack rarely made noises while he slept. And his life had been too full of these supposed "signs and portents" recently: he felt like he was seeing them everywhere.
Nothing could be that organized and predicted. He was certain of that. It made no sense, it didn't work. It had to be happenstance that things had unravelled as they had. Otherwise, what could he truly believe in?
With a flash, he saw his path for the immediate future, a way of balancing both sides of himself. He would leave Mionn behind, seek out this distant land of Neubayern, the origin of this strange religion. He would seek it out, and prove it false. Perhaps he would finally feel peace.
He wasn't fully healed, it was true, but it was good enough for the moment. He again struggled to get to his feet, and lacking any other option, finally re-donned the ornate robes sitting not the table, as well as putting the remaining miscellaneous items into his pockets and satchel. Knack awoke, and together they helped him put his armor back on: it couldn't hurt to be on the safe side.
With some reluctance, he finally picked up the book and shoved it into an open pocket. A last round through the room secured as much medicine and herbal remedies as he could reasonably carry, and with that, he was ready to go. He clicked his tongue, and the reassuring weight of Knack was once again on his shoulder. Leaning heavily on his staff, he made his way towards the exit.
He paused in the doorway, and a thought occurred to him. Who, exactly, was leaving? It bothered him on a fundamental level that this was even a question.
He stood there for some time.
In the end, did it really matter? This journey would be one of discovery, in many ways. He had donned so many names over his life, it would perhaps be suitable to leave the one constant behind. It would likely only serve to tie him down. For now, he would just be a lonely traveller, off seeking some abstract truth, or at least a way to deny it. The name was unimportant.
Armed with that belief, he stepped out into the world, and off into the night.
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