She cared for him, feeding him, cleansing him, rubbing soothing oils into torn gashes in his skin. When she spoke, he could hear her voice, though most days he couldn’t stay conscious long enough to understand what she said to him.
One thing confused him more than any other. She always called after him with a name that wasn’t his own—Orick, Orick. She always referred to him in the same way.
He didn’t recognize the name. It couldn’t be his own. But if Orick wasn’t his name, what was?
He didn’t know.