What follows is mostly fiction. But also some fun. Enjoy it at your own risk.
Rigbault dragged the body up the hill. Or what was left of it.
Eldridge had been reduced significantly since his latest battle with the Dragon. Now, the Dragon was not a dragon per se. He lacked the black wings, the flaming breath, the scaled hide. But he had everything else: caprice, avariciousness, and a general hatred of all that was good and fine and kind in the world.
Truly; the Dragon spent much of his time accounting for his massive pile of gold. He slew damsels; sometimes to eat, sometimes for pleasure. Boys, too. And of course, he tormented the hearts of anyone who had a field to plow or a decent trade to hack at. No matter how meager your belongings, thought Rigbault, the Dragon would come for them. You could be sure of that.
In the meantime, Eldridge was still hurting. Even if he only consisted of a hand and an eye.
The eye had been twitching for a good bit of time. Since then, it had stopped. The hand continued to squeeze at Rigbault's shoulder, and he hated the feeling. Of course it was the left hand, the deft sinister as he knew it in his old language. It was bad luck to hold onto such a thing, and worse luck to bother to go to a man like the one he was going to in search of help. And at a time like this!
But who knew. Eyes held power, as did hands. As Rigbault fought his way through thick trees and rocky slopes, he thought about the sainted remains that lay resplendent in the temples of his hometown. The fingernail of Al-Hoja. The tooth of Silenus. Heck, even the splinter of the True Spear that had split the guts of the Old Emperor, He Who Would Return. But it had been a long time since He had left; and might be a long long time until he came back. And to be honest, the Dragon wasn't a proper foe for the Emperor. His Dark Master? That was another story.
Finally, the hut of the healer came into view. Rigbault sighed. Finally! It was a shabby place, really just a pile of sod, presumably linked over a few jutting biers of wood beneath. But smoke piled out of its roof and rose into the lapis lazuli sky that coned this mountain highness in its infinite splendor. That didn't help with his sore feet nor his aching back. "Hello!" he cried with his tired throat.
There was no answer.
Rigbault shrugged. The weight of the hero on his back pulled at him. How much could one hand and a single eyeball possibly weigh? Sure, Eldridge was an attainer of mighty deeds. He'd slain the very real dragon of Pennyr. He'd cast down the Masters of Glor, saving the beautiful Princess Earlyn. He had gone so far as returning the scattered people of Addon to their homeland, but had wisely chosen not to join in their war against the new locals who had marked claims in their stead. Truly, a wise and just conqueror he was. And what glory was there for Rigbault? A long hike through the woods was all he could assume. The true hero of this story sighed. He'd had nearly enough, but not quite. He puttered towards the fence that surrounded the hut.
"You stay right there!" spat out a voice. Rigbault halted, as he had been instructed. "We're not open; it's still Sunday and Mondaytide we'll have customers. You'd better hold off for another week or two."
What in the name of any of the True Gods had Rigbault to do? He shook a few things, his head being the least of them. Eldridge the blade-sworn, Eldridge the hammer, or what was left of him, was still strapped to his back. The eye was still in a pouch for safekeeping, and the rest of him was still an almighty weight and carrying him was a sore slog. Supposing there was a chance to just leave him here and walk away?
No, there was no arguing with fate. With destiny. With the will of the writhing hand that cast his desires to the mill and turned them into gristle. He wandered forth towards the hut and its smoking flue.
"I've got a weapon!" Screamed the voice. "A real mean crossbow if you care to know. It'll take your eye out at fifty-five paces, and your heart if you get any closer. So if you come any closer, you'd better have something to show for it!"
There was little point in trying to chasten the unknowing. Rigbault reached over his shoulder and pulled out the hand. He placed its wrist in his own palm and waved it overhead.
"Well, that's gruesome," said the voice. "What leads you to think I can do anything with that? Doesn't seem to be doing much, now does it?"
Rigbault maintained the limb aloft. The pinky twitched. The entire wrist flexed inward and outward, grasping at some horrible ordeal in the afterlife.
"Alright that's true gruesome. You can bring it inside, come along now." replied the voice to the hideous spasming. Rigbault sighed. This was a bit much, even for a friend. Even for a sworn companion. Hells, at this point, he should've asked for a raise. And when had he asked for anything? On he shuffled, knees aching, eyes worn from the sun, lips parched, but who had asked him after his suffering times?
The healer's hut had no door. Just a hole in what was the new, unleveled ground. Rigbault stepped inside and looked around. No healer was to be seen: there was an old wooden box, a lit fireplace, and a crossbow's click at the right edge of his head.
"Now don't be trying no silly stuff. Sure, I heal. And I also harm. And if you want money, there's none to be had. I'm sorry but it's all tied up in various investments right now and I'm in no shape to divest any."
Rigbault would have sighed, but he felt deflated. The trek up the mountainside had done him right in and he would've collapsed had it not been for the oath he'd sworn at the base of this same mountain. He would've asked why had the healer not set up shop at a lower altitude, but likewise, there was little air to spare.
"Now come on and show me that hand."
Rigbault did so.
"Well I'll be," said the healer. He was a lanky man, squatting. Could've been taller had he stood upright, but that would've caused his long yet narrow head to collide with the blackened ceiling of his little hut. "Here was a hero once, to be sure. Have you got any more of him?"
"Just the eye," came the reply, from somewhere within.
"Hmm. Might be enough. Might be too little. And you brought him all on up here?"
"Uhuh." was all he could afford to say.
Eyes closed. Time went. When Rigbault opened his own eyes, he had been evading a dream that involved his older brother eating crystal glass and spewing blood from between his lips. But that was another story, and irrelevant to boot.
The healer was working fast. Already the hand had been expanded into an arm, the eye nearly half of a skull. The parts both lay splayed on a plinth of stone, gradually growing bigger and longer and more complete as the healer concocted his miracles.
"It's a good thing you got him here in time. An hour, a day more and there'd have been nothing left to work with. I'd guess this is by the work of the Dark Lord's earl, no? The Dragon, perhaps?"
"Good guess." he said.
"Well you made a good choice to come here. I don't think anyone else would've been able to work with what you've got. Nowhere else to ambulate towards in these parts anyway."
"Uhuh." came the reply. "Mind if I sleep a bit more?"
"Makes no difference to me." Replied the healer. "Sleep, don't, or some third option. But let me work if it pleases him."
He did. By the time he woke, most of Eldridge was coughing up something that resembled blood.
"Lords!" cried the hero. "Where am I! And Rigbault, where is my faithful friend?"
"You tire yourself." Replied the healer. "Better you ignore it."
The Hero did so. Rigbault breathed heavy. Relief swept over him. There might yet be some hope against the Dragon and his legions. Perhaps a kind shepherd or farmer in some distant day would no longer have to look over his shoulder for fear of his fell soldiers or his lacerating whip. Eldridge's cruel blade yet slept beneath the Lake of Longing. They could go back to retrieve it. This healer continued his work.
It's better if you rest, somebody said.
And so they did.