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This was the man that the Baron had attempted to replace him with. Simon took a long look at the broken-down mercenary on the platform that had been erected and wondered how close he’d come to such a fate himself. Not that the Baron’s men would have been able to take Simon so easily, of course, but as a lesson, it was still very easy to see himself ending up in that place. Especially given how much less magic he’d known back then.

Simon was tempted to save him because the way that Baron Corwin was handling this struck him as unjust. He didn’t, though. The first reason was that he would have definitely alienated the Corwin family in the attempt, but the second was more important. This had all apparently only happened a couple of days ago, which meant that there was probably still time to save young Gregor’s arm and, if he was lucky, the man attached to it.

So, he said nothing as the pathetic man begged for his life and was left to choke and dangle at the end of a rope. It was an ugly sight made uglier as Simon couldn’t help but see his own face there.

As soon as it was done and the Baron was walking back to the house, Simon approached him. The reception was much chillier than it had been the last time Simon had come to town in this timeline, but the reason was fairly straightforward. He’d sought to avert a war, and in doing so, he’d come here too late.

“Apologies, my Lord,” Simon said, bowing slightly as he saluted the man with his fist to his chest. “My name is Simon, and I’ve heard from your people that your son’s injuries are severe and that your doctors are preparing to remove the boy’s arm. I’d like to help if I may before that happens.”

“I doubt you know any more about Medicine than that buffoon Karls’s knew about hunting goblins,” Baron Corwin said jadedly, “but as thanks for your compassion, I will let you walk away now instead of letting my men beat you for your insolence.”

There was a coldness in the man’s eyes that showed just how much this event had already cost him, and it saddened Simon but not enough for him to give up.

“I might look young, your lordship,” Simon said, “but I’ve seen several battlefields and served under both knights and healers. So if I must beat your men bloody to show you I know my business, I’m happy to do it.”

Baron Corwin laughed at that, unsure if he was serious or simply a bad joke, but when he shrugged, the three men that had been escorting the Baron all moved as one to do their Lord’s bidding. Simon wasn’t afraid. He didn’t even draw his blade. He’d fought all three of these men more than once, and though he didn’t remember the exact foibles of their fighting styles, he was certain he could best them, especially with a few words of minor force.

The first one went down without any magic at all. All it took was a feint to the right before an uppercut to the left, and he was down, vomiting his lunch up thanks to a hard blow to the gut. The second one was warier, and he and Simon exchanged several blows before he ended it with a head butt to the man’s flimsy nose guard. It cut Simon pretty deeply but knocked his opponent unconscious.

The last one, he tripped with a whispered word of minor force. Then Simon stood there with his boot resting lightly on the man’s throat, making it clear that he could end this in a rather ugly fashion if he so desired. The Baron’s response was to draw his sword a few inches from his sheath before he hesitated.

“Why?” Baron Corwin asked. “Why not simply take 'get lost' for an answer? Why do you think that beating my men will make me let you see my son?”

“I Just wished to show you I was serious,” Simon said, whispering the words for minor healing under his breath before he wiped the blood off his forehead with his leather gauntlet. “If you don’t see how a man of my talents could be useful, then I am willing to take my leave.”

Truthfully, that little gesture, showing that he no longer had a wound, would have been enough to get him branded a witch in some of the places he’d been to so far. It might be enough here, but Simon was willing to take that chance in the hopes that it was enough to tap into a father’s desperation as well.

The Baron hesitated but finally sheathed his sword and said, “I’m not paying you a single copper for this, you understand? I should put you in the stocks for assaulting my men.”

Simon nodded at that, smiling as he was led into the familiar manor. The last time he’d been here in this timeline, it had been a nice place, but now it was a house in mourning. When they reached Gregor’s sick bed, the curtains were drawn, and the much younger version of the broken-down man he’d seen so recently lay in his sick bed.

The smell of rot overpowered the flowers that had been brought into the room, and young Gregor’s eyes barely flickered open at the sound of their entry. Simon said, “Alright, every one of you leeches out, now.”

It was the only reaction possible. He was sure that they were doing their best, of course, but seeing what bad shape their patient was in made any other reaction impossible. Here they were, sharpening their saws and deciding how much of their patient's arm to cut off when the bandages of his arm were brown and foul-smelling. It was revolting.

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Everyone looked in shock, from him to the Baron, for approval, and when he nodded, they began to leave. Once the two of them were alone with his dying son, Simon said, “Baron Corwin, I’m going to need clean linens, boiling water, and the strongest alcohol you have in the manor brought in here immediately while I remove whatever this is.”

“It’s a poultice for the infection,” Baron Corwin said immediately.

“Really?” Simon asked. “And does it look like it’s doing any good against the infection burning through him?”

Simon started to peel away the crusted bandages, revealing the pale pus-soaked skin beneath. He could smell the stench of goblin immediately, but to him, it looked like Gregor had been mauled by a Pitbull or a rottweiler. He found more than two dozen puncture wounds that went to the bone and a deep bite mark on the forearm that had probably done at least some nerve damage. Honestly, he was hurt so badly that Simon had trouble seeing him as the young man he'd spent so much time sparring with in previous lives for a moment.

All in all, it was an ugly scene, but Simon didn’t see anything that wasn’t fixable here. When the Baron returned with the requested items, he paled to look at the severity of the wounds.

“This? This is what my gold paid for?” he growled as he looked at the rotting flesh of his heir. “I’ll have them hung in the square for this if he… if you can’t…”

Baron Corwin couldn’t complete the thought, which was fair, Simon decided. He was a good man in a bad spot.

To distract him, Simon proceeded to list off half a dozen herbs he wanted brought to him. None of them would do much. They were more for pain relief than anything. He just wanted to keep the man busy while Simon started tearing the sheets into thin strips and sterilizing them in the boiling water.

The bandages wouldn’t do much either except hide the magic he planned on using. “Gervuul Delzam,” he whispered, using the words of greater curing to focus on the bacteria and toxins running rampant in the boy’s body.

Simon felt the power flow through him as the greater word purged the bacteria that had brought young Gregor to death’s door. That alone would have been enough to save his life, but Simon knew he could do more.

Gregor would almost certainly live now, but he’d probably still have to deal with a crippled arm for the rest of his life, and Simon didn’t want that. Not for a friend.

So, instead, he started with the worst of the wounds, whispering the words of healing as he visualized the muscles rebuilding and the flesh covering them over. He tried to imagine the nerves coming together, too, but his knowledge of anatomy still wasn’t what it should be, and he knew it.

In the dim light of the empty room, no one saw what he was doing, which was fortunate for both their sakes. Simon made no effort to eliminate the scars he was leaving behind, though. After wounds this bad, everyone would expect scars, so he left them behind everywhere.

“Aufvarum Hyakk,” he whispered repeatedly, closing up the puncture wounds one at a time and forcing them to vomit out the decaying flesh as they healed from the inside out.

It was disgusting, and the smell made Simon gag, but he ignored it. Instead, he focused on his work. Whenever Baron Corwin was in the room, Simon focused on bandaging the parts he’d already healed, and whenever he made the Baron leave to find something else he wasn’t going to use, Simon continued to weave his magic, one small wound at a time.

Half an hour later, the arm had been completely bandaged by ragged ugly strips soaked in herbs and brandy to hide his work, and his charge had been almost entirely healed, though Simon hoped that no one would know that for at least a few days.

The Baron became much friendlier once he saw that his son’s fever had broken and there was some color returning to Gregor’s cheeks. That night, he was invited to dine with their family as he had so long ago, and he volunteered to go and purge the goblin infestation at the silver mine that still remained undone even after all of this.

Over brandy afterward, Baron Corwin apologized and tried to pay Simon for all he’d done, but he wouldn’t accept it. “I’ll take a silver a head for the goblins but nothing for doing right by your son,” he said with a smile.

Simon smoked the monsters out, the same as before, and by the time young Gregor was out of bed, the mines were clear, and Simon had gotten comfortable in the very same cottage he’d lived in for months as he tried to understand a bit more about magic.

Honestly, he didn’t know exactly what he was doing here, and he felt like he should leave on a high note, but something about seeing that young man struggle with his newfound disability made it impossible for Simon to leave right away.

So, he tutored him in swordplay in the same way that Gregor had once tutored him so many deaths ago. Honestly, it wasn’t getting him any closer to the bottom of the Pit, but Simon enjoyed those quiet weeks as he rebuilt a relationship with a very familiar stranger.

At least until the war arrived once more. This time, it wasn’t the Duke’s men that had come to ruin their peaceful life. It was the local Earl.

Simon discussed it with the Baron over dinner one night when the rumors started to fly. Apparently, after the gods had seen fit to strike down the King’s brother, the King died almost immediately, and some took that as a sign of disfavor from the gods. “In the weeks since then, everything has started to come apart, at least according to certain merchants,” the Baron explained. “All the nobles with a little power or a small army are apparently warring with themselves now, and Earl Greyden wants me to raise the banners and march with him on the capital.”

“I don’t see how that can possibly end well,” Simon said.

And he never would, either. He went with Baron Corwin to a parlay to discuss the terms under which he and the other Barons of the region would ally with him as the Earl made a play for the throne. It was an ugly, contentious affair on neutral ground near a crossroad.

Each of the barons had been allowed to bring only a single bodyguard, and Simon went as Baron Corwin’s. Sadly, even though he suspected a trap, he didn't figure out what it was until it was too late.

That night, when they reached an impasse, and the Barons demanded more guarantees about their rights, the Earl announced he was stepping outside to relieve himself so they could discuss their position among themselves. However, as soon as he was clear of the large pavilion tent they’d been meeting in, dozens of crossbow bolts ripped through the canvas walls, striking everyone in attendance.

Simon was hit three times, but still managed to mumble the words of healing through numb lips enough to stop his bleeding enough to draw his sword. Regardless, even calling down greater fire and force on his enemies, it wasn’t enough to fight free of the trap. As a result, he died along with the Earl that had summoned them, all five barons in attendance, and most of the unit that had arrived after the negotiations had started to ambush them. It was a bloodbath, and Simon’s last thoughts, beside how cold the sword piercing his liver was, was that he hoped this newly orphaned version of Gregor would be strong enough for whatever came next.