Hazy Crossroads

Sylen nearly gasped as he came to, tongue as dry as it had felt in the memory; he cleared his throat weakly, keeping his eyes turned away from Morgan, who had drawn so close to him.

He had a decision to make. Lie, say it was the monster's damage, potentially scare this man even further; or speak the truth, and risk being attacked or ratted out. His heart twisted into his ribs, but he made his choice.

"I don't know," he lied. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out. "I don't know what that was. It-- I'm not sure if-- I don't know what you saw," he said, turning further away from the Witchfinder, "but what-- what I saw was painful." He wet his lip, bit the inside hard. "I think I shouldn't-- shouldn't have treated the wounds, or-- or maybe something from that monster is affecting me, the same way it's affecting you." Tangling all these concepts together, weaving a pitiful, ugly fib, made him suddenly feel sick; his stomach lurched, and he swallowed back his guilt as best he could. "Just-- just take it easy, get some rest, drink water. Try not to think about whatever you saw too much, I-- I don't think it would be a good thing to do." The taste of bile began to crawl up his throat as soon as he met eyes with the ragged man before him. Sylen understood grief, understood taking up Witchfinding because of it; they just had different goals. And different abilities. It was more important to hide, to keep hidden, to prevent any harm done to himself. There was nothing he could do to help this man regain his memories.

"Take care," he finished. He moved himself further along, not wanting to stay back any longer. He'd helped the man as far as here-- that was more than enough. As he hovered in the doorway, he added a few last words. "I'm sorry." Then he left.