Sieged

Chapter Twenty-Three

With a shudder, I stare into the eyes of my elixirman. 

I step back, almost fumbling onto the mound of bricks, before my fear makes me scan for a weapon in his grasp, but I see nothing. Nothing in his hands or hidden in his fouled clothes. 

I truly don't know what to make of this. 

'Here to see me?' I eventually ask in a whisper as if anything louder could unleash my tormentor. 

My elixirman stops just beyond the last step of the cellar's stairs and replies with no menace, no change in his usual demeanour, 'I am.' 

'Funny, you always know where to find me, don't you?' 

'It's not that hard.' 

'Or maybe you followed me here? A habit of yours perhaps?' 

'I have no need for that.' 

'I see you're not wearing your cloak. Lose it somewhere?' 

My elixirman glances past me before saying, 'No. I know exactly where it is. And it will always be with me.' 

Is this some sort of riddle? Is he playing with me? 

'And what happened to you?' I then ask. 'Were you injured out there in the attack? Or helping the injured?' 

He peers down at his blood-stained and shredded shirt. 'You don't remember?' 

I shake my head. 'Remember what?' 

My elixirman looks back at me and creases his features with judgment. 'You did this.' 

'Did what? You're not making sense.' 

He frowns like he always does. 'You killed me.' 

Stunned, confused at the words, I'm voiceless, but anger soon starts burning inside and I growl, and no longer in a hushed tone, 'Why are you jesting with me like this? Are you mad?' 

'Mad? Not I.' 

'Are you the Night Cleaver? Are you the one that attacked me?' 

'Not I.' 

'You are testing my patience for the last fucking time! Explain yourself. Explain what the fuck is going on.' 

My elixirman grabs a tear in his shirt and pulls it apart, making me gasp at what he reveals. 

It's a wound, deep, hacked mercilessly. 

The man pulls apart another tear and then another, each one revealing a different yet similar laceration. 

'How-how-how is it that you are still alive?' I stutter. 

'But I'm not. I told you, you killed me.' My elixirman glances past me again, his gaze dwelling on the blue cloak. 

The words I utter in reply are of more irritation and probing than anything else. 'If I killed you, how is it that I can see you?' 

'Because what you see standing before you is a figment of your wounded and dying mind. I am your creation.' 

'What madness is this?' 

Rage now grips me tight. It thirsts for action. I've had enough with these fucking games. 

I Iunge, run at the man, pulling back my arm to land a fist, to break whatever this spell is. 

My elixirman doesn't flinch and says calmly before contact is made, 'Your leg seems to have healed, Pannor.' 

I stop my attack dead, realizing the man is speaking the truth. 

My leg doesn't hurt. 

'What in the gods–' I say, staring down at my limb, making it move with ease. And I wait for the pain to return, to send an agonizing shudder through my body but it doesn't appear.