i. Unraveling

He wakes up face down by the side of a road, his hair spilled out loosely around him like fine spider silk. There is a weight on his back, familiar for reasons he can’t quite place in the haze that has settled over him. His body aches as though he’s been trampled, and he has a splintering headache that keeps him glued to the ground despite the fact that it’s an undignified position. It’s so bad that his stomach turns, and he stays very still while he waits for it to pass.

The air is cool and damp. It’s a balm on his head, which pulses with searing hot pain, but his joints don’t appreciate it quite as much. Overhead, something is rustling. Leaves? Yes, leaves, he thinks. It’s close enough to whispering that it makes him nervous.

He begins to sit up.

Nausea comes in fits and starts, so he takes his time with it, and as he does he realizes he has something clutched in his hand. His eyes open - it’s difficult, because they’re practically crusted shut - and he stares down at purple-gray hands that are at once familiar and foreign to him. They must be his. He is looking down at them, and they flex at his command.

At the same time, he doesn’t know these freckles. He doesn’t remember these scars.

Does he remember anything?

He purses his lips and eases himself back into a sitting position. As he does so, he turns the thing in his hand over and reveals it. It’s not much, in theory.

A scrap of paper.

A series of red threads, four or five of them long enough that they might wrap around someone’s neck.

An eye.

Wait.

No.

An amber stone, shaped like an eye, with a rounded ruby in the middle that serves as an iris. Small red beads connect another few smaller, similarly shaped stones to the main body of the pieces. Artistically, he supposes it might be considered quite nice. It is smooth and well-rendered. Obvious care has been taken in its construction, and it might even be worth something.

He hates it instantly. It fills him with a nameless dread and it makes him sick, almost literally. His stomach flips in protest. It’s appalling to look at. He wants it gone.

For reasons unknown, he doesn’t toss it into the trees behind him, and instead reaches for the scrap of paper. It looks as though it was torn from a book - the back side has text from a language he doesn’t recognize. The front side, however, is handwritten and blessedly legible.

Good luck out there, Benny.

“Useful,” he mutters, and nearly startles at the croak of his voice and the slide of something hard against the roof of his mouth. It sounds like he’s been sleeping for a long time, or hasn’t spoken in ages.

He touches his throat and makes another sound, this one lower. He rolls his tongue and finds it studded.

Then, feeling the state of his voice or his apparently pierced tongue are probably some of the least important things to figure out right now, he instead wipes his eyes to clear them and reads the message several times over. It’s maddeningly unhelpful, but probably addressed to him. Benny, huh? It suits him well enough, he supposes. It’s something to hold onto.

He slides the stone, the thread, and the paper into his pocket so that he doesn’t have to look at any of them anymore and begins to take inventory of the rest of himself. He’s in a loose, off-white shirt that drapes cavernously to reveal his chest. The only other thing in his pockets are a few black feathers, but the weight on his back is a heavily packed bag with a bedroll cinched to the top.

As he shifts to unpack it, he realizes he feels… uneven. One leg weighs differently than the other, and doesn’t respond quite the same to his commands.

He pulls his pant leg up to check and oh. Oh, that doesn’t seem right.

The prosthetic attached below his knee is of excellent make, as far as he can tell, and it’s even quite pretty. It looks like porcelain, finely painted, and moves just a little slower than he expects it to. His mouth curves into a frown, because even though it is pretty and it’s obviously there and working, it doesn’t feel quite right. The creeping wrong that has been slinking around in the back of his head threatens to surge up and overtake him, but he shoves his pant leg down again and manages to squash any pesky unease back under control.

“What are you doing?”

That voice is not his own, and in fact comes from a man who emerges from the shadows nearby.

Benny swivels his head to look at the man as he approaches, but his reaction time feels… off. Sluggish. Probably the fact that he feels like he took several full body slams and has a truly awful headache besides. He’ll have to forgive himself.

The man approaching with slow and measured caution is an elf of some kind, gray-skinned and white-haired. He’s tense beyond measure, but not to the detriment of his form. He seems ready to draw a dagger at a moment’s notice. No sooner than Benny has noticed that that he catches a glimpse of steel flashing on the other man’s belt. Armed and dangerous, this stranger is, and Benny has been caught flat footed. Does he even have a weapon?

He glances around, a quick flick of the eyes, and - ah. A glaive buried blade first in the soft earth nearby, as well as a sheath that he expects contains a proper sword settled next to it.

The stranger catches that look, and his eyes narrow. His posture grows more defensive yet. “Well?”

No chance of getting to those weapons before the newcomer guts him in his current state, Benny figures, so instead he offers an easy smile that sits pleasantly on his face. Despite the sleep-roughness of his voice, the words spill smoothly from his lips. “Just checking my things over. Seems like I’ve gotten pretty turned around. You wouldn’t happen to know where the nearest city is, would you?”

Rather than putting the other man at ease, that smile seems to make him even more tense, as though that’s somehow possible. He’s coiled up so tight he might as well be primed to pounce, which is something Benny would like to avoid. He’s not sure he could win any kind of fight right now.

“What are you doing out here?” the man asks instead of pointing in a direction and letting Benny get to it, which is frankly quite rude of him.

“Same as you, probably,” Benny replies, popping one eyebrow up as though to ask ‘what are you fucking on about?’

The stranger’s brow furrows in a retort that plainly reads ‘please die in a hole.’ "I watched you peel yourself from the ground and look at your own things as though you didn’t recognize them. We are not the same.”

Benny slowly raises his other eyebrow. “Fucked up of you to see a man face down on the side of the road and not at least check if he’s breathing.”

“You were.” The man’s mouth tilts down at the corners, becoming a prominent scowl, as though the act of Benny’s survival is somehow a personal inconvenience to him. “And you were already beginning to stir by the time I arrived. There was no need for me to intervene.”

“You could have helped me up,” Benny tells him, although he’s fairly certain he doesn’t want someone else’s help getting up, and would rather no one had shown up at all for the moment. “Could’ve asked if I was alright. Instead you were brooding in the fog. Real nice, bud. We got ourselves a stand-up individual over here. Congratulations. Lemme get you a gold star.”

The other man bristles, lips pressed into a thin line, jaw clenched tight. A flash of smug satisfaction rolls through Benny to see him getting so worked up, but that - and the stranger’s potential reply - are cut short by the sound of conversation echoing up the road. Both of them are momentarily distracted from the talk at hand as they turn to look, and sure enough, two more figures are emerging from the thick mist.

“--bad about the college, huh, Paulie?” one fellow is asking. Another elf, though this one has tan skin to go along with his pale hair.

“My education’s gone up in flames,” sighs Paulie, who’s dressed to the nines. He could be human, except that broad white wings stretch from his back and he has a literal halo. Now, Benny doesn’t recall much, but he’s fairly certain humans don’t have those. Something else, then.

Both of them look, perhaps, a little singed. Though they’re smiling at each other and chatting amicably, they have the air of people who are deeply exhausted. There are lines under their eyes, and there’s no spring in their step - no adventurer’s march. That said, the latter perks up some, wings included, when he spots Benny and the other elf on the side of the road.

“Devin, look,” Paulie says to his compatriot, and Devin straightens up a little himself. “Got ourselves a couple of stragglers!”

“Hi stragglers!” Devin tacks on, cheerful despite his obvious tiredness.

Across from Benny, the unnamed stranger has frozen, his expression guarded and suspicious. He’s just the crown jewel of any social situation, huh.

Benny lifts his hand up in a casual wave, still smiling. “Hi yourself.”

“You coming from Haven?” Paulie asks, and there’s something about the question that makes it feel weighty.

"Never heard of it," he replies, shrugging one shoulder. He's not sure if he's lying or not. "Is it far? I need some place to hole up."

Devin and Paulie glance at each other, their faces falling into twin grimaces.

"Normally I'd give you my wholehearted recommendation and the names of a few of my favorite inns in town," says the latter, "but given the state of the city right now, I'm gonna have to advise against goin there, Mister…?"

"Benny," he supplies readily. "What happened?"

"Oh, that shit blew up," answers the former. "It's bad."

That might explain it, Benny thinks. If he got caught up in an explosion, maybe something dinged his head. Then again, there's no blood or ash on his clothes, and his headache seems more internal than anything. It looks like the same thought process might be going through the as yet unnamed stranger's mind, so Benny speaks before he can.

"Well, shit. Where y'all headed, then? Like I was telling my friend over here--"

"I am not your 'friend.'"

"--I'm a little turned around. Need a city to get my bearings."

"Yeah, about that… Devin, do you recognize this path? I swear we're only a few hours out from Haven, but I've never seen this place before in my life."

"Nope. Not a clue. And it’s so misty I can’t tell left from right, being honest with you."

On cue, all four of them look around, and a strong gust of wind rustles the leaves in the trees. It’s a crescendo of whispers and the sensation of being watched. This is not a safe place, Benny realizes quite suddenly. Everyone prickles with supernatural awareness, and for a moment he’s certain something’s going to come crawling out of the fog intent on their untimely deaths.

He begins the arduous process of getting to his feet, though his body complains the whole way and his head throbs uncomfortably. Really, he’s in no state to be fending off any beasts, but he can at least get ready to run.

His legs - especially the one that doesn’t feel like his own - have other ideas, and his attempt to rise gracefully is more of a stagger.

“Whoa, hey now,” says the winged man. “You alright over there?”

“Never been better,” Benny says from behind gritted teeth, a lie so obvious it probably counts as sarcasm. The ground seems to shift under his feet. He can feel the weight of the stone eye in his pocket, heavier and heavier. Sweat beads on his temples. The world turns.

Before he can fall, so-called Paulie crosses the gap and offers him a shoulder that he grabs onto from the simple desire not to land in a heap on the ground.

The smile on his face is friendly, but also knowing. “Sure thing, pal. Why don’t you lean on me for totally unrelated reasons? I’m Paul, by the way. Paul Shaw.”

“I’m Devin!”

Said elf also comes a bit closer, but not so close as to crowd him. The attention is… nice, he supposes. Paul’s warm. Devin’s eyes are friendly. Good for his bones. Good for his ego.

“I gathered,” Benny replies dryly, though not without some humor. “Matter of fact, the only name I haven’t picked up is that one.” He jerks a thumb at the man who, now that Benny is standing, he finds is actually quite short. Not that he’s any less deadly for it, of course.

Devin and Paul’s heads swivel toward the as yet unnamed suspicious character.

That character proves himself exactly as friendly as a porcupine, and bristles just like one. “That is absolutely none of your concern.”

“I beg to differ,” Benny says, mild as anything. Half a smirk creeps onto his face. “If you’re going to watch me sleep, I should at least know your name.”

“You weren’t sleeping. It wasn’t even trance. You were unconscious.”

“All the worse, stranger, all the worse. You watched over me while I was unconscious and I don’t even know your name?” Benny sighs as though overcome with the vapors.

The stranger scoffs, perturbed, and opens his mouth to begin what might be a truly entertaining tirade about what Benny can do with his sweet nothings--and then, with one look at the self-satisfied smile forming on Benny’s face, seems to think better of it. His mouth pinches shut as though he’s tasted something foul, but he doesn’t look away. No, his gray eyes are keen to watch. He’s no fun, Benny thinks, and he’s also one to look out for.

Paul and Devin are amused, it seems, though the latter says, “Haha, yeah--wait, you were actually unconscious? You sure you’re alright?” which is more information than Benny is equipped to provide about himself at present.

“Just peachy,” he says, though he recognizes the irony of that when he’s currently leaning hard on a near total stranger for support. “I had a rough few days. I’m sure you can relate.”

It’s something he assumes is true, considering the state of his body and the fact that he remembers jack shit all, but it could be a lie, he supposes. Maybe his life was easy and he was eating out of the lap of luxury. Maybe he just wandered off and collapsed in a heap on the side of the road and woke up without his memory for absolutely no reason at all. Just a change of scenery to liven things up a little.

Ha. Fat chance.

Still, the reminder of Paul and Devin’s woes is enough to make Devin back off. He goes pensive, looking down the path from which he came. “Yeah, fair enough.”

Another sound echoes through the mist from down that path, then. Hooves, beating the earth. The trundle of wagon wheels.

All of them go tense as those horses begin to emerge from the fog, drawing behind them a wooden wagon.

In the driver's seat of that wagon is a girl, young, with wild brown curls. Gold glints in her hair and her ears. She looks worse for wear than either of the boys--her clothes are scorched and her expression is deeply haunted. She looks as though she hasn't slept in ages, and won't for a while yet. Her face changes when she spots them clustered on the side of the road, something more confused than anything.

She's pretty, Benny thinks.

She also flicks the reins to slow her horses one handed, pulling to a stop near exactly next to them.

"What are you guys doing out here? It's dangerous for giorgios in the Mists," she calls from her seat, frowning.

“We’re lost as hell,” Devin returns. “D’you know the way to the next nearest city?”

The girl grimaces in much the same way that he and Paul had not a few moments earlier, like someone who has to break bad news to a couple of schmucks. “Oh, wow. You all are fuuuucked if you’re lost out here. This is where people get forever lost if they don’t bring at least some belladonna, and even that’s a crapshoot on foot.”

“Oh, joy,” Benny says wryly. “Forever lost. We’re doomed.”

“Hey now, that’s not what she said,” Paul replies with the air of someone leading up to a bit. “Just fucked. That’s totally different. Little more up my alley, if you catch my drift.”

“Nice,” Devin nods sagely.

“Oh, no, you’re also doomed,” says the girl, a shit-eating smile spreading on her tired face. “I was just trying to be nice about it. Can’t have a bunch of panicked giorgios near my vardo.”

Benny snorts, amused, and notes with some pleasure that the girl smiles a little wider when he does so. “Of course not. That would be unthinkable.”

“Aw, shucks,” Paul continues, and there’s enough force behind it that he might as well be saying ‘fuck’ at maximum volume. “I guess this is it for us, fellas. Devin, it was nice catching up. Benny, so sad I won’t get to know ya better. And you--” he points at the unnamed elf, “We’ll see about you. Maybe you got what it takes to make it when the rest of us are gone.”

The girl in the driver’s seat hrms as though she’s not so sure about that. So does Benny, though he actually thinks the man would be fine. There’s something about him that suggests he could survive a crisis situation. He bristles so delightfully at their shared judgment, though, and Benny simply can’t help himself.

“Where are we precisely? I can make my own way,” he says, clearly annoyed and trying not to stoop to their level.

“Yeahhhh, so, the Mists don’t really work like that,” she says, sucking in a breath. “You could walk for miles and end up back where you started all without turning for a second. I think…” Here she hesitates, and then sighs and gestures one-handed. She winces as even that small movement jostles her arm. “I think you all better climb in.”

The man’s brow furrows minutely. “What are the Mists, exactly?”

To that, she shrugs - only one shoulder - and a shadow falls over her face as though she’s remembering something she’d rather forget. “Just another place, except they’re a weird place that can spit you out in loads of other places.”

“Another plane, then?” he asks, and he, too, looks more grim for the question.

“Um, yeah, I think so.”

“We shifted planes?” Devin asks, startled. “When’d that happen? You’d think we would have noticed.”

“You’d think, but giorgios don’t know anything about anything around here,” she says, pulling another smile on. This one’s markedly more tired, as though the weight of whatever happened is dragging her down moment by moment. “I’m not gonna make you get in the vardo, but the offer’s open!”

“Let’s see… between a wagon ride and going around on foot in a brand new plane, I know what I’m picking. Devin, you with me?” Paul spreads one wing to wrap around Devin’s shoulders, since his arms are clearly busy supporting Benny.

“Always,” Devin grins.

“Babydoll, that’s what I like to hear,” Paul returns said grin and cuts a glance toward Benny. “Benny? I can walk you.”

“Certainly beats standing around,” he replies, squeezing Paul’s shoulder. Something about that makes Paul raise an eyebrow, but his grin turns sly and his eyes wander down the front of Benny’s shirt. Hm. Interesting. Definitely not unwelcome. “Just need the rest of my things.”

Devin looks around and, upon spotting the weapons upended on the ground, goes, “I got them!” and does, in fact, get them. The glaive is a bit heavy for him, clearly, and he nearly fumbles it, but it’s not that hard to hold a stick with a blade on it.

Benny shrugs and says his thanks.

“What about you?” the girl says, and she’s looking at that first stranger.

He hesitates. “What will I owe you?”

“Um, nothing?” Her brow furrows. “I just don’t want you to die out here.”

His mouth turns into a thin, suspicious line. “Would you take payment in copper?”

To that, she raises an eyebrow, and then shrugs again. “Yeah, sure. I won’t say no to money. It’s money.”

That first stranger then purses his lips and looks like he’s strongly considering the merits of saying no thanks anyway and trying his luck on his own. After a moment of consideration, however, he acquiesces with a nod that speaks of reluctance. “Very well.”

“Cool cool cool,” the girl nods back. Then, most curiously, she turns to the window behind her and gives it a little knock. “You hear that, doc? Company.”

“I heard,” someone says from inside the wagon, their voice a quiet sort of strained.

She nods again, more to herself, and turns back to the rest of them. “Alright! Door’s in back. It’ll probably be a tight fit, so one of you can sit up front with me if you want--oh, here he comes, okay.” The words ‘tight fit’ must trigger something in him, because the gray-skinned elf pulls himself into that seat so fast Benny’s surprised he doesn’t hurt himself. “Well, the rest of you can get in.”

Paul walks Benny to the vardo with Devin trailing a half-step behind, and the door unlatches under his fingertips, revealing what is hopefully the final strange new individual of this whole endeavor. What a strange individual they are! Even Benny, who is quite rapidly realizing he has no frame of reference for just about anything, can recognize that there is something off about the creature that waits for them in the wagon.

They’re pallid, with patchy skin and eyes so pale as to be white. Not human, surely. Their teeth are too sharp for that.

“Howdy do, fellow rider?” Paul greets them with the same enthusiasm he showed Benny. Or, well, perhaps not the same enthusiasm, but close enough for government work.

They shrink away from it, and all of them, as the three of them begin to settle in. “Hello.”

The wagon itself - the vardo, as it must be called, though if Benny’s heard that word before he certainly can’t remember it - is fairly nice on the inside. It’s more like a little home than whatever he was expecting, complete with bed and bench and kitchen. Paul sits him down on the bed and then, in a bold move that Benny finds he doesn’t mind, sits right next to him. Benny raises an inquisitive eyebrow, but Paul only smiles, and he finds himself smirking back.

That leaves Devin to the plush bench next to their newest compatriot, though he sets the weapons in his arms down near Benny first. Polite of him.

“You been traveling together long?” he asks when he’s properly sat down, and the creature looks as though they would like the corner of the vardo to simply open up and swallow them whole rather than make small talk with a handful of lost boys.

“No,” they answer, curt but not entirely impolite. They have the air of someone who doesn’t know how to talk to others. There is a hefty pause where everyone waits for them to continue, but either they don’t pick up on the cue or aren’t inclined to say more, because their lips remain firmly pressed shut.

“Well! I’m Devin,” he says, not deterred in the slightest by this awkwardness. “And that’s my buddy Paulie.”

“Paul Shaw,” confirms Paul again, putting on a winning smile. “Nice to meetcha. The nice lady driving the wagon mentioned you were a doc?”

They shut their eyes as if looking for inner guidance, apparently find something, open them again, and then incline their head toward him. “Yes. I am Dr. Rhea Pales. If you’re coming from Haven, I can assess your wounds.”

“Lucky me, I’m fine, and--Devin, you’re good, right?”

“Yep! Just singed.”

“But Benny here…”

“I’m fine,” Benny says, rolling his eyes.

“Sure, pal, but it wouldn’t hurt to have the good doctor look you over, would it?”

Faced with two imploring gazes and the pale white eyes of the doctor, Benny reconsiders his stance on being stubborn about this. There is, after all, a chance that there’s actually a secret hole in his head, or his brain is leaking out of his ears and nobody has noticed yet. He’s no medical expert - or, if he is, he certainly doesn’t remember any of that right now. Maybe he’s dying. It’s more reasonable than not to let a supposed doctor give him a check-up.

He sighs from his nose as though extremely put upon. “Well, if y’all insist. I’m not sure what there is to find, though.”

“Maybe you could start with telling us why you were unconscious on the side of the road,” comes a dry voice from the window next to the driver’s seat. That damn gray elf again, vicious as anything. Rhea jumps nearly a foot in the air, but Benny only flicks his ears--and then realizes they feel weighted. Also pierced, perhaps.

“Eavesdropping, are we?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not eavesdropping if it’s my vardo,” says the girl.

Benny finds himself amused. “Is that right?”

“Uh-huh! Keep talking, giorgio.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves a hand dismissively. “It’s not a very interesting story. I just don’t remember.”

The girl from the front goes, “Huh?”

“Buddy, how much did you have to drink last night?” Paul asks with one raised eyebrow.

“Oh, no, not like that,” Benny says, shrugging. “I don’t remember anything.”

The chaos this statement causes is unimaginable, and fills Benny with smug satisfaction. The prickly stranger sitting up front hisses something like, “I knew it.” The wagon jerks as the girl turns and flings the window open to get another look at him, her expression stupefied. Devin echoes, “Huh?” and Paul’s eyebrows are so far up on his head that they might be trying to escape. He looks like he’s trying to gauge Benny’s sincerity.

It is, eventually, Rhea who speaks reason into the room. They pinch the bridge of their nose, sigh deeply, and say, “You have amnesia and you didn’t think it was pertinent to be checked by a doctor immediately?”

“I just agreed, didn’t I?” Benny shrugs again. “My apologies for not knowing how to act after waking up on the side of a mysterious road with no memories, especially after being accosted by a small angry stranger.”

The small angry stranger in question scoffs audibly, even from inside the vardo.

Rhea’s eyes narrow as if they’re trying to determine if he’s being serious or not, which is reasonable of them. Benny doesn’t actually care that he was accosted by a small angry stranger beyond the fact that he could have been stabbed, but clearly that’s not likely to happen anymore. Probably.

Eventually they must determine that it doesn’t matter all that much, because they say, “I suppose that’s fair. Is there anything at all you remember that could help determine what caused this?” As they ask, they gather up a nearby black bag and begin looking through it. As far as Benny can tell, it appears to be full of medical supplies.

“Not a lick,” he says, though he takes a moment to think about it. The eye is a heavy weight in his pocket, but it doesn’t bring up any memories. Only feelings, the likes of which Benny doesn’t care to experience. “Everything from before I woke up is totally blank, I’m afraid. I do feel like I was in a hit and run, though.”

Rhea purses their lips and approaches. Helpfully, Paul shifts out of the way so that they can sit down, and he ends up standing near the door to the vardo as it trundles away underneath them.

“Where is the pain? Is there anything else you’ve noticed?”

“Everywhere,” Benny says, but at Rhea’s dubious look he continues, “No, really. I don’t have a muscle that doesn’t ache right now, since we’re being honest with each other. The headache is worse, though. If you’re going to check for anything, could you find the spike in my skull? I’d much like it removed.”

Finally, Rhea looks less annoyed, perhaps because Benny is finally answering questions, but that’s replaced with a touch of concern that doesn’t leave him feeling hopeful. Ah, well. “I can check your head. There are other diagnostics I could do as well--would you mind removing your shirt?”

Benny glances down at said shirt, already draping open to reveal a wide swath of his chest, and then glances back up. “Who am I to deny a doctor?” he says, and the smirk that creeps across his lips makes their face close off again instantly, going cold and completely professional. Duly noted. Still, he shucks his shirt off his shoulders and lets it drape around his waist, though not before realizing that the sleeves need unrolled to be properly taken off. It’s not as smooth as he would like it to be, but someone - Paul - whistles lowly at the reveal of more skin.

His nipples are also pierced, he realizes with idle amusement. It looks good on him. Rhea tactfully doesn’t say a word, but Paul is staring doggedly.

“Is that an eye?” Devin asks, eyebrows up, and yes. There’s also that. On his left pectoral, an eye has been neatly carved into his skin, so clean as to appear to be a tattoo. The flesh, however, is the same raised pale gray as the scars on his fingers, so there’s no mistaking it. Someone branded him with this. The sight of it (ha) reminds him of the stone in his pocket again, and nausea twists his stomach.

“Yes, I believe it is,” he says idly, as though it doesn’t matter.

“He has an extra eye?” says the girl in the front seat, again turning. The vardo rocks with the force of it, but she seems less impressed when she realizes it’s just a scar. “Oh.”

Rhea doesn’t react to that, or really anything, ice cold as they check him over. They spend a long moment looking into his actual eyes, but apparently don’t see anything worth writing home about. “Tilt your head, please,” they say, and then, “I’m going to feel for any lumps,” when he does so. Their hand is small, brisk, and clinical as it lights upon his skull, but there aren’t any tender spots. Just one massive headache, its origin a mystery.

“No exterior wounds, and nothing swollen,” they inform him, taking their hand back. “Are you experiencing nausea, tinnitus, blurry vision-- anything of that sort?”

“A bit of nausea, sure,” he says.

“Please don’t throw up in my vardo,” says the girl up front.

“He’s also dizzy, doc,” Paul cuts in, and Benny glances at him. He only smiles innocently.

Rhea’s mouth twists into a small frown. “Could be symptomatic of a concussion, along with the amnesia, but… In a case like that, I’d expect the cause to be more visible. Just a moment.”

They pull out some sort of medical implement from their bag that Benny helpfully cannot remember the name of, but when they fit the ends to their ears its use becomes more apparent. Rhea touches the round, flat end to his chest and listens for a moment, and then moves it slightly. “Take a deep breath, please.”

He does so, and then once more as Rhea shifts the disc to another spot and prompts him again.

Lastly, they press the disc over his abdomen and listen there for a little while. Their lips form a thin, colorless line as they draw back, pulling the device from their ears. “Nothing unusual there.”

“Don’t sound so upset,” Benny says, amused. “Surely that’s a good thing.”

“Yes, well,” they say, and then trail off momentarily as they put their listening device away. When they turn back to him, their colorless eyes scan over his shoulders, chest, and arms. It is not nearly as hungry as the way Paul’s currently staring at him. “It’s better to know the cause of something as serious as amnesia, but aside from some bruising you’re perfectly fine physically.”

“Bruising?” he asks, glancing down at himself. His skin is a vast expanse of purple-gray and endless freckles, but now that he’s looking closely… Rhea points it out just as he spots the smattering of darker purple on his upper arm, as well as a splotch that’s almost black on his hip.

“You might have been grabbed and thrown, and that could account for your head,” they muse, but don’t seem entirely convinced. “I’d still expect to see some sort of trauma. It’s possible the damage is magical - psychic. Most probably it’s psychological, which is usually the case with amnesia. A more specialized healer could tell you more, but I at least have something that may help with the pain.”

True to their word, Rhea pulls out a small pouch, and works to free a small packet from it so that they can hand it over to him. He lets the paper drop in the palm of his hand and looks at it carefully, and then at Rhea.

“What is this, exactly?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Medicinal herbs. Powdered willow bark, resins, ginger, that sort of thing. Ideally it would be mixed into a drink, but you can swallow the herbs inside. Not the paper,” Rhea tacks on that last bit with the long-suffering tone of someone who has seen someone eat paper one too many times. “It won’t taste good, but in a few moments it should help.”

Benny glances at Paul and Devin, but neither of them seem to think anything of this. Unless all of these people are actually out to get him - which, to be fair, he can’t rightfully rule out given his current state - it’s probably safe to take the doctor’s mysterious powder. He can’t complain about potential relief from this gods awful headache, so with little more than a brief hesitation he takes the herbs and he knocks them back.

It does not taste good. He pulls a face at the bitterness of the herbs and swallows hard a few times, smacking his lips. “You weren’t kidding.”

“No. No, I was not.”

Benny hands them back the paper packet, which they stare at blankly before tucking back into their bag. “Thanks,” he says.

They nod, curt. “That should kick in shortly. Let me know if your symptoms worsen and I’ll see if there’s anything else that can be done.”

“Sure thing, doc,” Benny replies. He watches as they pack their bag up again and retreat to sit on the bench, keeping as much distance between themself and Devin as they’re physically able to. Paul sits back down next to him before he’s pulled his shirt back into place, but he finds he doesn’t mind that much either. Whoever he is, he’s certainly not shy.

As he’s fixing his shirt back into place, Paul says, “You been through your bag yet, sweetheart? That’s as good a place as any to get some answers.”

Benny glances at the bag he woke up with, the one that weighed him down so heavily. He could lie, he supposes. There’s no real need for these complete strangers to know his business before he does, and Paul is watching him with the keen interest of someone who has a puzzle to solve. He doesn’t need to be anyone’s mystery, though he must admit the attention feels… nice.

Before he can lie, however, the elf in the front seat pops that bubble. “He hasn’t.”

Right. He was watched over while unconscious, and so lying was never an option. Benny rolls his eyes. “No, I hadn’t gotten to it yet.” He hefts the bag up in his lap, nearly effortlessly despite its weight and the way all his limbs ache. “Shall we?”

“Oh, fuck yeah, show and tell,” Devin says cheerfully. “Just like school.”

Benny hums noncommittally at that, because he doesn’t remember any such thing, though the concept isn’t entirely foreign to him. He opens up his bag under three pairs of watchful, curious eyes and begins painstakingly taking out its contents. Out comes first a suit of chainmail, which seems to account for most of the bulk. He peers at it like it might stir up any particular memories, being that it appears tailored to his size and has clearly seen battle. It’s nice armor, well taken care of and practical. If he thinks about it he can almost imagine the steps it would take to polish it out…

Paul whistles lowly. “That’s fightin’ armor alright. Very nice.”

“Mm, not bad,” Benny agrees, and hands him the whole bundle, gauntlets and all, so that he has room to pull out more. “No clue why I’m not wearing it.”

“Perhaps you’re not a very prepared person,” says the elf up front, in such a way as to suggest this is a scathing burn.

“Or he was in a place he didn’t need it!” Devin suggests helpfully.

“Clearly he did,” the stranger says, dripping with disdain.

Most of the contents of his bag are wholly uninteresting to behold, as he pulls out more and more. A change of clothes. Rations, a mess kit, water, a tinderbox. The sort of things he needs to survive on the road, he knows intrinsically. He’s not sure how he knows that - it just makes sense. The more he pulls out, the more obvious it becomes to him that--

“Must be some kinda adventurer,” Paul notes. “Never seen a more stereotypical kit.”

“I was thinking the same,” Benny says, surrounded by well-used, meticulously cared for bits and baubles that must have at some point helped him survive. “Ain’t that something.”

Though it’s a fairly standard array, it tells him a reasonable amount about himself just by dint of its quality and the way it’s arranged. How clearly he can almost imagine caring for every piece of gear. He can’t visualize it, but he can feel it in his aching muscles. If he picks up the tinderbox, he’ll know well enough how to start a fire. He knows how to sharpen his blade with a whetstone, and how to buff his armor. Every bit was carefully stowed away for maximum efficiency of space, and he knows he can put it back just the same way. It’s very nearly disorienting, how much he learns without really knowing anything.

He’s about to chalk it up to just that - a meticulous adventurer - and pack his things back up because they’re running out of space, but then Devin says, “Oh, hey, front pocket’s got something in it!”

Benny realizes he’s right, isn’t sure how he missed it, and opens the front pocket on his bag to reveal a journal and a neatly folded square of leather.

“Is that a diary? Might be about to crack this whole thing wide open,” Paul says cheerily, looking for all the world like he’d like to snatch it up and go through it, but he’s still got some of the bag’s other contents in his lap. Benny makes a noise of wordless agreement, because it would be deeply convenient to have a log detailing who he is right there.

When he flips it open, however, he finds only charcoal sketches. The first few pages are botanical studies, it seems like, well-sketched leaves and herbs with a few notes about their properties, presumably written in his hand - it’s a tight, neat cursive with small flourishes that must be more for appearance’s sake than function. There’s even a sketch of a willow tree, citing the bark as a source for “surface dweller” painkillers. It’s useful, practical information for the first fifteen pages or so, and then he turns past that.

“Eugh,” Paul says, and turns it into a cough to try to cover it up.

“What?” Devin asks, leaning across the vardo curiously to take a peek. “Oh, shit, that’s fucked.”

“What?” says the stranger in the front.

The next few pages are dark, smudgy drawings of mushrooms blooming from corpses. Benny finds he’s not all that bothered by them, though some of them are graphic in a way that belies intimate knowledge of whatever process is occurring here.

“Mushroom corpse art,” Devin supplies helpfully.

“Ah,” the stranger replies, disdain creeping into his voice. “He is from the Underdark, then.”

Benny shrugs. “If you say so. Doesn’t ring a bell.” He flips through more and more sketches. Not all of them are so macabre - some of them are people, strangers to him. Pretty people he might have seen in passing, for all he knows. He stops on one image, though, that takes up the whole of one page. It’s a sketch of a campfire, with three people sitting around it. Two of them look quite similar - both elves, though one has long hair and the other wears it short. They both have sharp, angular faces dotted carefully with charcoal freckles.

The other is a girl with fluffy hair and pointed ears like a cat, glasses perched upon her feline nose. She was on a few of the other pages, too, now that he thinks about it. They all seem to be in high spirits, despite the smudged shadows kept at bay by the fire.

“Oh, hey, it’s you!” Devin says, still leaning over to peek.

Benny has trouble taking his eyes away from the picture. “Is it?”

“Definitely,” Paul agrees. “Nice lookin art, too. Seems like maybe you have a brother or something.”

It’s true that the elves in the sketch look very similar. Related, definitely. But who’s that girl? She must be important, if he’s drawn her more than once - if he’s drawn them together at all. A traveling companion? He flips forward a page, and then again, and sees more of her immediately. This is a closer sketch of her, her freckled cheeks, her whiskers. She has a grin like the sun.

Again, and it’s the other elf, this time, a full page of him. He has a long, pointed face, too thin to be traditionally attractive, but Benny touches his fingers to one close sketch. A brother? He should remember if he has a brother.

Sharp pain pulses through his head. Blood drips down onto the page, muddying the charcoal.

“Benny?” Paul says, worry in his voice, but Benny isn’t listening. His ears are ringing.

Something warm and wet is on his upper lip.

His head is pounding.

“Close the book,” Rhea says, sharply and suddenly, though not to him. Paul scrambles to snatch the journal from him, snapping it shut, but Benny is still lost, thinking about the brother he must have. The girl. Why can’t he remember? He should be able to remember.

“Benny!” someone says, loudly, but it sounds like it’s coming from far, far away. “Benny, stay awake.”

That’s a lost cause.

Benny’s world tilts sideways, and everything goes dark.

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