Chapter 2 — The First Time He Stayed
872 Words
The night deepened around the healer’s hut.
The village had grown quiet, but sleep did not come easily. A few warriors lingered outside, speaking in low voices. The fire inside burned low, painting soft shadows across the woven walls. Datu Marang lay still on the mat, breath slow but uneven. Every rise of his chest felt measured, as though his body negotiated with pain.
Ambo sat beside him, grinding fresh herbs.
The stone scraped softly. The scent of crushed leaves filled the hut again, sharp and clean. His movements were careful, practiced—yet slower now, mindful of the man beside him. He paused occasionally to check the bandage, adjusting it when blood seeped through.
Marang stirred.
His brow tightened, and his fingers curled slightly against the mat. Ambo leaned forward, placing a hand lightly on his wrist, grounding him. The datu’s eyes opened, unfocused at first, then slowly sharpening.
“You are... still here,” Marang murmured again, voice rougher now.
“Where else would I be?" Ambo replied.
“You do not sleep?”
“Later.”
Marang watched him. The firelight reflected in his eyes, steady, unhurried. The healer reached for another bundle of leaves, and the datu followed the movement. Something in the scent—bitter, green—seemed to anchor him.
“You used this before,” Marang whispered.
Ambo tilted his head slightly. “Many times.”
Marang’s lips parted faintly. “No... before. Long ago.”
The healer’s hands paused over the herbs.
Outside, wind brushed through the trees, rustling the leaves. Inside, silence stretched between them. Marang’s gaze drifted to the healer’s fingers—thin, stained green, careful. He watched them crush the leaves, watched the juice stain the skin.
For a moment, his expression softened—not like a datu, not like a warrior. Like someone remembering.
“You always crush them too gently,” he murmured.
Ambo blinked, surprised. “Gently?”
“You said… it draws the strength out slower,” Marang said, voice fading in and out. “But stronger.”
The healer stared at him quietly.
The datu’s eyes drifted half-closed, but he continued speaking, words pulled from somewhere deeper than waking thought.
“You coughed,” he added faintly.
Ambo’s breath caught.
Rain began tapping lightly on the roof, soft and steady. The scent of wet earth seeped into the hut, mixing with herbs and smoke. Marang’s gaze unfocused, yet he seemed to see something beyond the walls.
A thin boy knelt in the mud, one hand pressed to his chest.
The memory came not as a story, but as a feeling—wet ground, green leaves, the sound of uneven breathing.
“You will drown in your lungs,” a younger voice said, blunt and certain.
The thin boy looked up, startled but calm. “I am fine.”
“You do not look fine.”
The rain had fallen harder then, soaking the clearing beyond the training grounds. The boy’s basket lay half-filled with herbs, leaves clinging to his damp fingers. He coughed again, shoulders tightening.
“You are weak,” the taller boy said.
“Yes,” the thin one answered simply.
The honesty had startled him.
The taller boy crouched beside the basket, curiosity replacing judgment. “What are these?”
“Leaves for fever. Roots for bleeding. This one for pain.” The boy lifted a small stem, careful not to break it.
“You heal people with plants?” the taller boy asked.
“And chants.”
“That is strange.”
The thin boy shrugged. “Fighting is also strange.”
The taller boy frowned. “Fighting is strength.”
“Healing is also strength,” came the quiet reply.
Rain drummed against leaves. The taller boy sat beside him, studying the herbs. The thin boy resumed sorting, coughing softly between breaths.
“What is your name?” the taller boy asked.
“Ambo.”
“I am Marang.”
“I know,” Ambo said. “Everyone knows.”
The younger Marang reached toward the basket. “Teach me.”
Ambo looked at him, surprised. “Why?”
“A datu should know everything,” Marang answered.
“You are not datu yet.”
“I will be.”
Ambo studied him, then placed a leaf into his palm. Their fingers brushed—light, accidental. The touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary.
“This one stops bleeding,” Ambo said softly. “Crush it first.”
Marang followed, clumsy but careful. Green juice stained his fingers. They worked side by side while rain fell around them. Thunder rolled faintly, and without thinking, Marang shifted closer.
When the basket filled, Ambo tried lifting it. He struggled.
Marang took it from him. “I am not weak.”
“I know,” Ambo said, smiling faintly.
They walked back together through the rain. At the edge of the clearing, Marang handed the basket over. Their fingers brushed again—warmer this time.
The memory faded.
Inside the hut, Marang’s breathing deepened. His hand shifted slightly on the mat, searching unconsciously. Ambo noticed and placed his fingers lightly against the datu’s palm.
Marang stilled.
The rain continued outside, steady and quiet.
- Writer
