The next time Harm woke, his thirst gripped him like a vice, clawing at his throat. His breathing felt ragged, and his throat was restricted as though swollen shut. The throbbing in his temples had lessened but not dispersed fully. The dull ache remained as a reminder to feed his demon. The room was bathed in light, and he squinted looking through the window. The sun was high in the sky, and he must have been asleep again for several hours after exhaustion had taken him trying to escape his confines.

He took in the room. The table he could vaguely remember using to break the window had been set upright from where he had discarded it. Again, a fresh bottle stood on its surface. As he climbed from under the blanket that covered him, a breeze blew through the window. He felt the air on his head and frowned. It felt different. He reached his hand up and suddenly realised his hair was gone. Not just his hair but his beard, and he ran the rough skin of his palm across his smooth face.

Confusion flooded him as he looked down, realising he was no longer wearing what he had been. He hadn’t changed his clothes in weeks. As he looked at what he now wore, his mind raced; it didn’t make sense. His limbs felt numb as he staggered to the table, grasping the bottle before pulling its cork and greedily drinking. The cool water caused him to cough violently as he tried to swallow. After several attempts, he managed to swallow the liquid as the water slowly eased his throat. He turned to look at the door, where he could see the signs of where he had punched it violently. Blood stained its smooth surface. 

Harm looked at his knuckles, fresh scabs covering them, with one cracking open as he had grasped the bottle. A thin line of blood traced his knuckles before dripping to the floor. He swapped hands with the bottle and lifted his hand to his face, licking the wound like an animal. The coppery taste of his blood made him sense how hungry he was. Harm hadn’t eaten properly in months, and sitting on the small table, there was a bowl containing pears. He reached for one, lifted it, sniffed it before rubbing it on his top, and bit into it. Its soft flesh exploded in his mouth, making his stomach groan angrily as he chewed carefully and swallowed. Even the soft, pulpy flesh of the pear felt like iron as it scratched against his injured throat. 

This was probably the most coherent Harm had been in a very long time, and he didn’t like the sensation as he viewed his prison cell. The rough stone walls were apparent in the light from the window, and nothing but a small table and mattress with a bucket were present in the room. He continued to eat the pear until only its core remained before he discarded it on the table. There were two more, but his throat ached, and he would save them for now. He still didn’t know why he was here. He had a recollection that crept like a ghost in his mind about the farm and there being visitors.

His brain churned, uncertain and insecure at his predicament. Slowly, he walked to the door that kept him trapped and listened. He couldn’t hear anything and knocked against its surface.

“Hello?” he called.

There was no response, so he thumped the door with his fist, reopening his freshly scabbed knuckles.

“Anyone there?” he called angrily.

Still nothing.

Anger continued to well inside him as he felt rage building.

“LET ME OUT,” he screamed, kicking the door violently.

Still, there was no response. Harm moved from the door across to the window, peering through the bars of his cell. The sun shone brightly, and its warmth felt unnatural. Harm shuddered from the sensation. As he looked over the graveyard that continued behind the rear of the chapel, he could see a shape moving near its rear.

“HEY,” he shouted.

The figure didn’t respond.

“HEY,” he bellowed as loud as his throat would allow, pain coursing as he did. He could taste copper in his mouth, and he must have caused something to bleed from the strain. Harm reached up and touched his lips, finding the line of blood from his cracked lips.

The figure turned, looking towards the chapel, and Harm watched as it started to approach. 

“Get me outta here,” Harm called as the man came in range, and he recognised him. It was Jeffer.

Jeffer looked at Harm standing behind the window bars and, without responding to him, moved around the side of the chapel out of Harm’s view. Harm cursed in anger at being ignored.

He threw himself down on the mattress, before realising his actions were similar to those he had seen his children do when they had been told ‘No.’ A wash of emotion flooded him as he thought about Marius and Yonda. He had managed to hide their memory through drink, and the effect was dramatic. His body stiffened as his mind replayed the events of the morning he found his family dead. His mind then drifted to his beloved wife, Dahlia. He sat there in silence, staring at the floor as he battled the turmoil that struck him. Any other day, he would have popped a cork on a bottle and drank more until the feeling and the memories subsided. He had no bottle to hide his emotions today, and as he sat there again, he cried. It had been weeks since he last had, remaining in a clouded, emotionless state induced by liquor.

Harm didn’t know how long he had been sitting there battling his demons when he heard the sound of footsteps and muffled voices before hearing a key in the door of the room. He didn’t move, unable to move from his defeated pose. As the door was pulled open, he looked up and saw Wes’s face.

“Harm. Are you okay?” Wes asked.

Behind Wes, Harm could see Sister Carol and the broad-shouldered form of Jeffer. Jeffer looked tense, as though he were ready to pounce, and Harm recognised the pose from his adventuring days when facing down a hostile target. The body always gave away the signs of readiness. He didn’t understand why the man he only vaguely knew would look so aggressively towards him.

“What’s goin’ on?” Harm asked.

“I brought you from the farm with Sister Carol’s help,” Wes said, guilt on the man’s face. “I couldn’t let you continue living the way you were.”

Harm had little recollection of the months since he had buried his family, and in his mind, it may as well have been only the previous day. The images were so stark and haunting.

Wes continued. “When I came to speak to you. You tried to attack me when I removed your bottle. Sister Carol cast Sleep on you, so that we could bring you here.”

Harm continued to stare at Wes with a blank expression. His mind was trying to comprehend what Wes had said to him. After several moments, he replied.

“I tried to attack you?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, you were drunk and tried to get the bottle back. How much can you remember from the past few months?”

Harm frowned before shaking his head. “Little. Why?”

Wes walked into the room, sighing heavily, as Sister Carol placed her hand on his arm. He turned and gently removed it, nodding as he entered and approached Harm. Harm could sense the nervousness in the man’s movements. Why is he scared of me? Harm thought. Of all the townsfolk, Wes had looked out for him and been there supporting him.

“I don’t understand.” Harm said as Wes moved nearer.

“You have not been yourself for months. You have spent many days stealing from the townships to fuel your drinking. Both Sallew and Hillknot have reported the same problems. Some were calling for you to be captured and punished for your crimes.”

Harm’s head swam. He had only vague recollections of drinking, but that had only been to numb his tortured mind.

“I haven’t hurt anyone, have I?” Harm asked. It was the most lucid he had been in a long time.

“Thankfully, no. Not yet, but people have been worried that you may.”

Harm shook his head, his shoulders slumping further where he still sat. He reached up and rubbed his baldpate before removing his hand and looking at it. 

“My hair?”

“I had to clean you. You were too far gone and hadn’t been caring for yourself. I know the clothes don’t fit you perfectly, but they are all I had spare. We can look at getting you better ones if you wish?”

Harm looked at the clothes again. Both the top and bottoms were too short, but they were clean and reasonable. “I must have some at the farm still?” 

Wes’s face pained as he looked at Harm. Harm could sense the sorrow in his gaze. “The farm is destroyed. It is no longer recognisable. You had been sleeping in rags, and most of the windows are broken.”

“What?” Harm said, confused.

“Harm. You have smashed almost everything on the farm. The house is ruined, and the barn is in disrepair. I doubt you will find anything of value there.”

Harm shook his head, not wishing to accept Wes’s words. “It can’t be.”

“Harm. I wouldn’t lie to you. Maybe in a few days I can take you there, but for now we need to get you sorted. You haven’t cared for yourself in months. Look at you. You used to be so strong and fit.”

Harm looked down at his body, consciously feeling his wrists and arms. His previously strong frame had indeed vanished. He no longer had the frame he had carried from his adventuring days to those of becoming a farmer. He felt his thighs, where he was sitting, and his legs, which were also much thinner. Then, finally, he reached his face, where his drawn cheeks were—the realisation of what he had become resonating with him.

“You need to get fit and strong again. Start afresh and live your life,” Wes said.

“And how can I do that with no livelihood?” Harm said.

“You may stay here until you are ready to reintegrate into the township. Sister Carol, Jeffer and I will provide for you in the meantime. Once you are ready, and we are sure you will bring no harm. You will be free to go and do as you please,” Wes said.

“So, I am a prisoner?” Harm frowned.

“No. You aren’t a prisoner. You are here for your safety so we can take care of you as you recover.”

Harm’s head hurt; as Wes had been speaking, the throb had intensified, and he held his forehead. “Why can’t you just heal me?” Harm said, looking at Sister Carol.

Sister Carol’s face was pained. “It would not benefit you. You must fight your demons and prevail. If I healed you, it would only mask your suffering. My magic can mend wounds and bones, but not that of a broken spirit. The only cure is time, and that is a path you walk alone,” she said.

“My demons?”

“Harm. You have been stealing for months and drinking continually. I doubt you have even been eating most days. Once your body and mind are fit again, then and only then will you be healed.”

Confusion raced through Harms’s mind. He had lost everything, and with only a little recollection of the last few months, he did not know the problems he may have caused. 

“Jeffer. Would you be so kind as to get some more water and food from the pantry?” Sister Carol asked.

Jeffer nodded before turning and disappearing down the corridor.

Harm sat in silence, his head down as he tried to come to terms with his situation. Wes had supported him in his hour of need, and he knew he had a kind heart. Harm didn’t know Sister Carol well, but well enough to know she cared for the township and its members. They both must be helping him, yet it made little sense. 

It didn’t take Jeffer long to return with a plate of fresh bread and a jar of honey. He also carried a canteen of water. He handed the items to Wes, who took them to the table and placed them down. Harm glanced up and looked at them. The thought of water made him crave a drink; swallowing had become difficult after talking. He went to stand, and in doing so, Wes stepped back, and Jeffer stepped forward. The look of uncertainty, or was it fear, did not stay off Wes’s face. How had he caused Wes to feel like this?

Harm stopped moving and lifted his hands. “I just need a drink. My throat hurts,” he said as he again approached the water canteen before lifting it and taking a drink. Again, the cool liquid eased his throat slightly, but only slightly. Harm did not know what damage he might have done to his body.

“Eat and drink. We will return later to speak again,” Wes said.

Harm turned to look at the three of them, only nodding and not replying. As they left his temporary prison cell, Harm wondered what he needed to do to rebuild the trust he had so obviously lost.