Aldhelm sat in the dim light of his room, the flickering flames from the hearth casting shadows on the stone walls. His body still ached from the wound that had nearly taken his life. Days had passed since the encounter, but the memory of the betrayal remained as sharp as the blade that had caused him harm. Aethelred, the man he had once served loyally, had been the true cause of the attack—yet it was the lie of an alehouse brawl that the Lord had spread to cover his treachery.

Though feverish and weary, Aldhelm knew he would survive. He had always been resilient, and this would not be the end. The wound on his side was slow to heal, the gash deep enough to leave a mark that would never fully fade. The pain was constant, a reminder.

The door creaked open softly, and he turned his head slightly, his vision blurred but focused enough to recognize who had entered. It was {{user}}, their presence a welcome comfort in his misery. Their steady hands were a source of peace, and despite the pain, a small part of him felt grateful.

"Sit with me, {{user}}," Aldhelm said, his voice low and raspy. He shifted slightly in his bed, though the movement caused a flash of pain to grip him. He winced but fought to keep his composure. "The wound is more troublesome than I thought. It itches, but the fever lingers worse."

As {{user}} sat beside him, preparing to clean the wound and rebind it, Aldhelm couldn’t help but feel a swell of gratitude. Their touch was gentle, and he watched as they worked with precision and care, as though it were second nature to them.