He stared up at the clear blue sky for what felt like hours, trying to process what had just happened.
He felt an odd mix of emotions - relief, satisfaction, and a lingering sense of dread. As the adrenaline from the fight began to wear off, the reality of what he had done set in.
He had killed a man, a mere boy, just a few hours ago. But it was self-defense, he reminded himself.
Thorgar had been a monster, a threat to everyone around him.
Aerovind let out a weary sigh, attempting to sit upright.
However, as the rush of adrenaline began to fade away, his injuries made themselves known with a vengeance.
The wounds on both his head and arm were burning with agonizing pain. He tried to stand but collapsed back onto the ground, the world spinning around him.
Aerovind forced himself to focus and pushed through the pain. With great effort, he managed to stand up again, his legs shaking beneath him.
He stumbled his way over to Thorgar's body, his vision still blurry from the fight.
Then he retrieved the sword that had been knocked out of Thorgar's hand during the struggle, wiping it clean on the grass before inspecting it.
The sword was a finely crafted piece, with intricate designs etched into the hilt and blade.
It was undoubtedly an expensive weapon, one that Thorgar had likely stolen from a nobleman or his family sword.
Aerovind held the weapon aloft, watching as the sun's rays danced upon the polished steel.
This sword would become a symbol of his victory over the brutality of Thorgar, an emblem of his survival, and a grim reminder of the harsh realities he had come to face at such a young age.
He let out a sigh that seemed to echo among the trees. His muscles screamed in protest as they fought against gravity, but he refused to let himself collapse just yet.
He dragged his legs, inch by inch, towards one of the towering trees, leaving Thorgar's lifeless body behind. There, he began to dig with the pickaxe, as if preparing a grave.
Aerovind's hands shook as he labored to dig a shallow grave, his muscles weakening with each swing of the pickaxe.
Beads of sweat mixed with droplets of blood, splashing onto the ground and turning the soil a deep red.
Once the hole was sizable enough, he struggled to drag the lifeless body of Thorgar over to its final resting place.
It was a grim task, but Aerovind forced himself to continue. With great effort, he managed to drag Thorgar's body into the grave and begin to cover it up.
The stench of death filled the air, making it difficult for him to breathe.
After completing the task of filling the grave with dirt, he stepped back and observed his handiwork.
"No matter what kind of person you were, it is not my role to pass judgment on why you made the decisions you did.
That responsibility falls upon the gods. Nevertheless, you deserve a proper burial and a peaceful rest. Rest in peace, you bastard."
With a heavy heart and weary limbs, Aerovind turned away from the makeshift grave and slowly made his way back to the clearing where he had first encountered Thorgar.
His wounds had begun to sting less, but the pain still lingered. Each step felt like a battle as he fought against the urge to collapse.
When he finally reached the clearing, he sank down to the ground and leaned against a nearby tree for support.
The sun was beginning to set, casting an eerie glow over the landscape.
Aerovind shut his eyes, attempting to calm his thoughts. However, the sound of shouting echoed nearby.
"Is that a lone boy?" someone bellowed. "Go check on him and see if he's still breathing."
"I don't know about that. He seems dangerous. Look at that sword beside him, Sarah," another voice replied.
"He is just a kid. Mark, come on, let's check on him. We can't leave him alone."
Aerovind struggled to open his eyes as he heard the approaching voices. He attempted to stand, but his legs gave out, and he fell back onto the ground.
A woman and man arrived at his side, and the woman spoke first, concern etched on her face. "Are you alright, young man? You look terrible."
Despite his fatigue and pain, Aerovind managed to force a weak smile. "I'm... fine, ma'am," he replied, his voice hoarse from exertion. "Just some... unfortunate encounters earlier."
The woman and the man exchanged a concerned look. The man, who seemed to be in his forties, had a weathered face that showed signs of anxiety.
"We were told about a ghoul attacking alchemists like us in this area. Did you come across it?" The man asked inquisitively, noticing the state that the boy was in.
Aerovind blinked a couple of times before answering. His strength was dwindling, but he felt an obligation to reply.
"Not exactly a ghoul... unless a morang named Thorgar counts as one," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.
The name seemed to strike a chord in the woman, and the man's eyes widened with understanding.
The man crouched down next to him, her gaze intense. "Thorgar... the Wild?" he asked tentatively, worry lining her face.
Aerovind nodded faintly, his eyes falling shut again as he leaned back against the tree.
"Stop asking questions and grab the boy. We need to get him to town," the woman ordered, her face etched with worry. "Poor boy, only gods know what he has been through, Mark."
The woman appeared to be in her early twenties with wavy auburn hair that flowed down her back.
Her outfit was simple yet durable, consisting of a leather vest over a plain linen shirt that accentuated her curves.
Her eyes were a vivid hazel, mirroring the inner turmoil she felt as she looked at the boy.
They carefully lifted Aerovind and carried him between them, the man in front and the woman behind.
She gently placed her palm against his forehead, searching for any indication of sickness or fever.
"You can relax and close your eyes now," she reassured him. "You're in good hands.