"What — am — I — doing!?" I groaned at myself aloud as I dragged Siridan's unconscious body through the empty inn with great effort. I immediately collapsed under his weight when I tried to carry him on my back, so I opted for a… less elegant method.
It must've taken over a hundred heaves and tugs for my puny arms to drag him away from the entrance – and a hundred more to pull him away to a place where he could stay hidden.
Each time my dragging caused Siridan's head to bump against the floor or a chair's leg, I bit my tongue and stopped myself from uttering a hushed, instinctive apology he did not deserve.
I already did more to help him than I ever should've, and I didn't deserve self-judgment for allowing him to hit his head a few times on the way to safety. No matter how many times my guilty conscience pinched at my heart, I refused to accept or acknowledge it.
For the first time that evening, I had a vague idea of what I was doing. I might have felt a bit confused still, but at long last, my actions had a sense of direction to them. I needed to hide Siridan before anyone showed up – and to figure out what was wrong with him.
Fortunately, I knew exactly where to go, which meant I did not have to go through the endeavor of hauling his weight up the stairs and into one of the rooms.
Letting him rest in my room was out of the question, and Zakuli might've killed me if he discovered I was lending an empty room to a guest without payment.
Instead, my quick thinking and slow effort eventually brought us down the stairs behind the bar and to the unused basement the old innkeeper graciously allowed me to use to engage in reading and potion brewing in my spare time.
—Well, 'graciously allowed' might've been a slight exaggeration. Zakuli wasn't aware of the fact that I'd been using it, but ever since I found it during my first day working at the inn, I undertook the task of cleaning and maintaining it.
It was in a downright horrid state at first. It had been neglected and forgotten for a while; that much was evident. I had to move a bunch of boxes and get rid of all the dust for it to be even remotely hospitable, but I toughed through the muscle aches and sneezes and turned it into a more agreeable space.
After its very subtle makeover, I could even call it a little homely. The boxes were strewn about the room still, but the childish part of my mind allowed me to ignore the mess after I positioned them strategically and made them take the vague shape of a small fortress.
At the end of every workday, I'd spend my time reading through the books I'd collected and familiarizing myself with hobbies and the fundamentals of professions that I never allowed myself to indulge in when I was an adventurer.
I finished brewing a small batch of cold-curing potions for the first time just the other day, and the small crate that contained them still sat open with my copy of 'Basic Potioneering' beside it, right by the mattress I set amid all the boxes.
I gingerly pushed it aside with my heel, then finally succeeded in lifting Siridan's heavy and solid frame off the floor for long enough to maneuver him around.
My fingers pressed against his back, clinging to his musculature, for which I might have garnered an appreciation if it weren't for the fact that I was grunting and struggling to move him – or the lingering fear that he'd wake and get violent, thinking I was the reason he fainted.
Once I properly situated him against the mattress, I fell to my knees with mild, overly dramatic exhaustion and looked forlornly at the potions in the crate I pushed aside.
It sure would have been convenient if Siridan collapsed because of a cold, but something told me it wasn't that simple.
"Right, let's get this over with…" I muttered to myself anxiously as I looked around for my healer's guide. I found it quickly enough, then began following the step-by-step process of diagnosing his illness, as instructed.
With a brief cough, I skipped over the section that said 'treat your patient gently' and instead moved on to the more practical advice and to the simple spell's incantation inscribed on the page. My lack of aptitude for healing magic was still a hurdle I was working to overcome, but...
"Mih. Guide my hand."
Two of my digits softly traced a crescent shape above Siridan's chest. As my glowing fingertips moved, a moonlit hue illuminated the ancient sigils I drew in the air, and a prayer to a Goddess that had long left our world lingered on my lips.
The initial warmth felt like a good sign of a successful casting, as I had never felt it while attempting to cast that spell before, but it soon faded, and with its absence came a brief, pounding pain in my heart.
I took a sharp, deep breath to calm the soreness. "At least it actually did something this time," I mumbled, frustrated at the lack of palpable results. "I guess I'll do it the old-fashioned way."
I watched Siridan's chest rise and fall calmly. He looked rather peaceful for a man who just faceplanted into the inn's hard stone floor. I could only hope that once he awoke, that calmness would remain – and that some of my questions would get answered.
My hands gently took hold of one of his arms. I brushed a finger over his forearm soothingly, though, in truth, this gesture was only meant to reassure me.
Dragging him around was one thing, but forcing myself to give my full attention to him and his presence pushed all the fear I had suppressed back to the front of my mind.
I was searching desperately for anything I could do to pacify my fear of him. I needed it more than anything else at that moment. Even though the new me was a coward, I didn't want to live in angst forever. And so I took solace in the warmth of his hand, reminding myself of his humanity.
"It'll be fine," I whispered to myself. "Siridan said it himself, didn't he? He won't hurt you. You'll figure it all out. You got this." My hushed words came with an uncomfortable shiver. I took another breath and suppressed yet another unsettling feeling.
I felt more pathetic than ever. Siridan was the last person I ever wanted to borrow comfort from, but I had somehow convinced myself that he was my doorway to an answer. After a year of living as Alysia, I still clung to my past.
But that was what kept me sane after my life ended and started again. I still hoped to learn why I died – and to keep that hope safe, I was content with spending just a bit longer basking in the warmth of the hand that took my life.
I could still find my missing memories, and I allowed myself to believe that as long as he was there.
Siridan really was there. Siridan really was breathing. Siridan's hand really was warm.
And he really was alive. But I couldn't find his pulse.