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"It's...alright. I...took care of it."
Ingram knows pain, he likes to think. It's gotten...bad...a few times before, and it's always like this. The period of shock when he can't think about anything else, and then this, the period of numb clarity. Or "clarity." The pain still clamors hot along his jawline, roaring to be heard; he has to be careful, make sure he's actually thinking straight.
Ryo is trembling in the arms of a witch-man who must be his father. Poor kid. Ingram owes the kid a massive debt of gratitude, of course, but he still wishes Ryo had just...stayed away. Stayed out of the forest. That hell was supposed to be private.
The witch-man takes one look at his face and gasps. "Oh, gods alive - Ryo, please, get some towels to staunch the bleeding and help him inside!"
The little scarecrow-boy seems reluctant to leave his father's hold, but he wiggles free and dashes into the house. Ingram sways on his feet, the pain making itself known as a sudden wash of nausea. Viciously, he forces his gorge down. Can't afford to get any puke in his wounds.
Ryo returns, hands full of woven dish towels. He hands them to Ingram to hold on his slashed cheeks (the pain cuts hotter, but Ingram ignores it). Both father and son walk him into the kitchen, half-supporting him when his balance starts to fail, vaguely it occurs to him to apologize for getting blood all over their floor, he tries to speak but the witch-man hushes him with the urgency of a very worried doctor, all at once he's slumped in a chair at the kitchen table and Ryo is running back into the room with a wooden box. The pain sounds like rabid coyotes in his skull. When did Ryo leave?
The witch-man sits down at his side. "Alright. I'm going to sew up these...slash wounds," he says, low, fast but steady. "I have a sleeping potion I can give you so you won't feel the stitches, but I understand if you don't trust me enough to let me feed you something like that. Just be aware, if you choose to be awake for this I need you to hold very, very still. Okay?"
Ingram is not stupid. He is not his mother (and thank the gods for that); he can't identify potions at a glance and a whiff. "I can manage," he hisses, tone raspy, human phonemes forced through the crow's register. He'll be cawing in agony next. "Just - give me a towel to bite, or - something."
Ryo silently offers one, rolled into a tight cylinder. Ingram snatches it and shoves it in his mouth, or at least the half of it that will fit--
The pain spikes, tears deep. His vision blacks out for a moment and when he can see or feel anything again, the witch-man's hands are on his shoulders, supporting him. He's pale, quietly terrified.
...Ingram is not stupid. Carefully, he removes the makeshift gag. "On second thought - put me to sleep." His voice breaks. "Please."
Ryo doesn't need to be told twice; the boy runs into another room again and returns with a bottle and a small glass, like a shot glass with black marks and tiny numbers up the side. The bottle's contents, pale purple and swirling slow with iridescence, look a little familiar.
The witch-man measures out a careful dose of potion into the glass and hands it to Ingram, who drains it in a single gulp. It numbs his mouth and throat wherever it touches. Its effects manifest mercifully fast - the numbness spreads over his face, and then his limbs and eyelids go heavy, and then he knows no more.
---
He wakes slowly, with a thick, strange taste of lavender in his mouth. He's not sure how long it takes him to regain his faculties, but when he does, he realizes he's lying under blankets on a soft mattress, a straw tick judging by the smell. Fitting, for -
Ryo. Ryo's father, and their farm.
He shifts in bed, feeling human limbs respond. So he's done it. Escaped. Ding dong, the witch is dead.
His cheeks still hurt, but it's less hot screaming anguish and more an ache like a bad day-old bruise. He can't feel that horrible separation anymore. So the witch-man was better than his word - he must have worked some healing magic in addition to the stitches.
A stitched-up mouth. Heh. Now he and Ryo match.
Ryo.
A thought occurs to Ingram. He and Ryo are brothers now. Some law of magic acknowledged it - if it hadn't, Ingram would still be a bird and Ryo...well, who knows what would have become of Ryo. So, if Ryo is his brother, then Ryo's dad...?
Ingram cracks one eye open. Then he closes it again just as quickly, blinded by the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. It takes a few minutes to open his eyes bit by bit, adjusting to his bright surroundings. How long was he asleep?
Rolling around a bit, he catches sight of a nightstand, with a bottle of clear liquid, a smaller one of amber-tinted potion, and a note.
Ryo tells me your name is Ingram. Welcome to our home, Ingram; you're welcome to stay as long as you like, especially while you recuperate. The sleeping potion works for roughly twelve hours, so it will probably be midday by the time you read this. I've managed to close your wounds by magic, though I am sadly not a skilled enough healer to prevent them from scarring. On your nightstand are salt water, to clean your wounds should they reopen, and a potion for pain if it gets too bad. No need to worry about overdose, but it can cause nausea on an empty stomach. Please join us for afternoon dinner, if you like.
-Itori
Slowly, Ingram hauls himself into...some semblance of verticality, anyway. The tail end of the sleeping potion's fog is still clearing from his body, making it more sluggish than he's used to. Bed is nice but he's tired of lying around (blame the bird instincts - he could probably sleep standing up at this point, might even prefer it when he's not recovering from, uh, surgery). And damn, is he hungry.
The witch-man, Ryo's dad - Itori - has been nothing but charitable to Ingram so far. Healing magic, for gods' sakes. Ingram's still reluctant to trust the guy when he's spent no more than a few minutes conscious in Itori's presence, but he's been watching. Watching the goings-on at the farm, watching Ryo's behavior. Itori shelters Ryo, maybe a bit too much, but he's certainly not...the same kind of parent...as Mom.
At least if dinner's a communal affair, the food probably won't be poisoned.
He makes his way slowly across the room, noting that the bed he just left sits alongside another mattress, this one on the ground. Is this Ryo's room? Ryo's bed? Probably. Damn, that's another one he owes the kid.
Getting down the stairs is a laborious affair, but his strength and equilibrium continue to return with every passing minute. There are delicious scents wafting in from the kitchen: pumpkin, spices, vegetables, hot apple cider. Ingram's stomach rumbles. By the time he reaches the kitchen, he's pretty sure he won't need to grab doorframes for balance anymore.
Itori sits in a big chair, stirring a cauldron over his hearth fire. He smiles wide when he spots Ingram. "Ah! Good morning! Or good afternoon by this point, I suppose..." He chuckles. "You've just missed Ryo, he's gone to pick some mini-pumpkins. Got to decorate the house now that we're celebrating the Harvest Festival properly, together."
"Wh - khh -" Ingram's voice comes out as a corvid rasp. He must be thirstier than he thought. He tries again, "Whatcha cooking? Smells great."
"Pumpkin stew," Itori replies. "No magic this time, I promise - just garden-fresh vegetables and a good long time to simmer." Ingram peeks into the cauldron; sure enough, it's full of a thick, gently bubbling orange broth, with chunks of carrot, potato, celery, onion, dumpling bread, and stew beef floating in it.
"Can't wait." Ingram coughs; the harsh movement hurts his sore cheeks. "Can I, uh...is there water anywhere?"
"Should be some left in the pitcher on the table. If there isn't, I'll send Ryo to the pump for some more before we eat. Cups are in the left-hand cupboard by the stove."
Ingram retrieves a wooden cup - evidently the glassware is reserved for potion-making - and is pleased to find that the pitcher does indeed have a little water left in it. It's a balm for his sleep-parched tongue and throat.
The bang of the front door heralds the entrance of a grinning Ryo, now flesh and blood in full daylight, holding a basket of tiny pumpkins. "Got 'em, Dad!"
Itori smiles warmly. (Ingram can't help smiling too, even though it makes his face hurt. Damn, that kid's grin is infectious.) "Wonderful! Put them wherever you want around the house while I finish up dinner. Ingram, would you like to help him?"
"Sure," he says, no trace of a squawk now that his whistle's been wet a bit. Ryo cheers.
At the top of the stairs, holding mini-pumpkins in his arms while Ryo lines the gaps in the railing with them, he pauses for a moment to look back into the kitchen. Itori leans over to taste a bit of stew out of his ladle, then grabs a little salt-cellar off the shelf next to him and sprinkles some into the cauldron. Some little muscle in Ingram's back, that he didn't even realize he was holding tense, relaxes.
He thinks he's gonna like it here.