The Renegade awoke suddenly to the crackle of an open fire and the sound of rain falling steadily on the roof of the cottage. The next thing he noticed was the sharp pain in his side. His arms and side were heavily bandaged, and it was painful to even try to move.

Looking around the room, he saw an old man with a hunched back by the fire, stirring a pot. "Where am I?" he asked.

The old man turned and came to the side of the bed where the Renegade lay. "You’re safe," he said in a weathered voice. "I found you last night, lying in the woods. Your friends were scattered. The soldiers left you for dead. I brought you here to tend your wounds."

The man walked back to the fire and ladled a thick broth from the pot into a bowl. Returning to the bedside, he brought a spoonful to the mouth of his patient. "Eat some of this. You need to gain your strength."

After taking some food, the Renegade asked, "Who are you?"

"That is a story for another time. For now you may call me Friend."

"What happened after you found me?"

"The usual. The king’s soldiers came through, found a few boys who looked to be up to no good, and hanged them today."

"The nerve!" exclaimed the Renegade. "Who does that phony think he is, beating up a people who aren’t rightfully his? Why, if I weren’t all wrecked, I’d..."

"Calm, calm," the man replied. "Do you really think the foolish, spotty raids of your small band of insurrectionists will win freedom for this people? Each time you strike, the soldiers retaliate. You and your ’warriors’ are causing the deaths of innocent people, not saving them."

"But somebody needs to do something!"

"No more of this now, friend. We will talk more later. You need to rest, to heal. Your wounds are deep."

With that, the Renegade’s eyes closed, and the old man quietly walked away and sat down by the fire.