"Where is Perdiccas?"
Looking around at the nearly vacant, primitive room he was in, Alexander pushed himself up into a sitting position and focused his gaze back on the two old couples.
"Who is Perdiccas, honey?" the old woman answered.
"One of my generals," Alexander replied, cocking his head to the side, his eyes narrowing on the old, wrinkled figures of the couple who knelt beside him. Though he tried to hide it, Alexander noticed the old man flinch at his gaze.
They didn't seem like a threat, but after spending more than a decade engaging in war, he knew better than to take things at face value.
"If Perdiccas is one of your generals, then who are you?" the old man asked, his eyes gleaming with interest.
"His king," Alexander replied.
"Hmm, I have to say, boy, for the first time I approve of the identity you've chosen. It's a big step up from being a beggar."
The old man's words surprised Alexander, and he was just about to question him when a hand rested on his chest and began pushing him backwards.
The words in Alexander's mouth died off and until his back touched the bed, he repeatedly kept looking from the wrinkled hand on his chest to the old woman—first in surprise and then in horror.
Confused about where he had woken and what was going on, why would Alexander allow himself to be laid back on the bed if not that his entire body had been overwhelmed by just the woman's one hand?
There had been some strain on the old woman's hand, but the effort she had used to set him back on the bed didn't seem like much.
"Don't be surprised. You have a very weak body, Alex. I can call you Alex, right?"
Just like her words, kindness oozed from the woman's eyes, and calming down so he could understand what was happening, he nodded to her words.
"You've been dead for more than ten minutes and just now woke up, Alex. Your body might feel fine, but it isn't.
Lie down so it can rest, and in the meantime, while my husband catches you up to speed on what is happening, I will go make you something to eat.
You really need it. Understood?"
"Yes."
"It's 'yes, grandma.' Repeat it."
One way to get this done would be to grab the old woman by the neck and threaten the husband to talk, but if he believed the woman's words and what he had just felt, that was impossible.
He was like a twig in her old, wrinkled hands.
"Yes, grandma."
Though old people tended to be very good at deception, Alex believed he had at least gotten a good read on the lady.
"And you," the old lady turned to the man, "this time he actually died. If you help him do anything stupid, I promise, I will beat you and this time bury you.
Is that clear?"
"Yes."
The old lady's expression toward her husband was hard and warning, a stark contrast to the soft gaze she had given Alexander.
When she got the confirmation she sought, she pushed up to her feet with her stick.
Standing up faster, the old man helped the lady to her feet and then led her to the termite-inhabited door of the room, a creak ringing out as he opened it for her.
"Regularly feed him the blessed water."
The last order of the old woman came, and the slim man swore his obedience.
"Of course, love."
Closing the door and shutting off the bright lights from outside, the old man returned to Alexander, who had sat back up. Without bothering about Alexander's position, he went to the bowl containing the concoction his wife had made and poured a little of it on the ground.
"You believe me when I say you don't want to be drinking this, right?"
Alexander stayed silent.
"She believes it heals, but I swear the only reason people get better from taking it is because it's so bitter their body gets terrified and heals itself to get away."
Taking the bowl to a different spot on the mud floor, the old man let the liquid pour out and sink into the ground.
He repeated this several times until a significant amount was gone, and then he brought the bowl back to Alexander's side.
Moving to the side, the old man grabbed an old wooden stool and, placing it beside Alexander's bed, took a seat.
"What is your name?"
Just as the old man sat, the question came, and he raised an eyebrow at Alexander before answering.
"My name is Barth, but if you're going to go calling it around grandma, I have to warn you, you'll get badly scolded."
"Hmm, what's your wife's name?"
"Sorry, can't tell you that. You'll have to ask her yourself."
After Barth finished speaking, a crisp silence filled the room, and a smile slowly grew on Barth's face, while Alexander couldn't help but frown internally.
Very confused, Alexander would have liked to maintain his stance, but he was the weaker individual here, and he had a feeling he desperately needed information.
Something very important had happened since the last time he was awake.
"Grandma said you should explain to me what's going on."
"That she did," Barth nodded, and he went on to do just that.
"Well, first, we found you lying in the forest half-dead two years ago. When you woke up, you said your name was Hughes and that you were a blacksmith but had no memories.
Ma and I nursed you till you were well, full of life and strength. With nowhere to go, you decided to stay with us in this village.
But then, four months later, you mysteriously fell very ill and went unconscious.
Ma and I thought you would die, but after doing all we could to treat you, you got better.
The problem though is that when you woke up, you didn't recognize us. You said your name was Walker and that you were a pilot."