The Healers Hands, chapter 2.

Phew! I usually post at six pm my time here, and now it is eight, but that is because I worked my first overtime shift at the servicedesk! I have to writhe in misery a little and say that working the two jobs and writing this throughout the week is a pain in the ass, but I feel so accomplished at the end of the day. I still haven't heard if I got the apartment or not, and it's causing me to toss and turn at night, but gods know I'm remaining as hopeful as I can. It is a weird time in my life, but then again, when isn't it. lol. I hope you are all well and taking good care of yourselves, and I hope you enjoy the second chapter in this story! I am only able to write about 600-700 words per day and only edit for a couple of hours on Sundays, but I am really happy where I am heading with the story so far, even if the prose is very first drafty. I have been carrying protective Leith in my pocket all week, shimmying at the potential to show it off. Here's a little taste of it.

(Oop, also toyed around a bit with the formatting where I thought there would be choices, so. yeah. I'm getting a bit frustrated with writing this with a healer with a singular personality too... But it will do for now. Bye!)

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The next morning when you wake and coffee is already percolating, you step outside to broom the stairs and leave the obligatory plate of cat food for the fat orange cat that you already know has a handful of masters, and surely enjoys both second and third breakfast in short order. 

You hear it mrow and chirp right after you place the plate down with a clink against the concrete. Hunching down, you scratch his chin and revel in his fur, getting softer by the hour. “Once your cure for mites is done, monsieur, no more breakfast from me.” He meows, and jumps into your retreating palm for more scritches. “Yes, love. You have to lose weight! Perhaps I'll let loose a bunch of mice for you to chase instead.” A grumbling meow in return, then he turns his attention to the wet feast presented to him. 

“What's this?” You ask him as much as yourself, snatching up a bundle of linen. Once you touch it, you notice that there is something inside, and something begins to brood within you, a feeling both sour and sweet. It better not be what I think it is. You carry the package gently and walk back into the clinic.

Once inside, you unravel the bundle, and sure enough, bunched with a bow in pale yellow twine, are the paphiopedilum orchids, their slipper-like shape perfectly preserved— they must have been plucked just hours ago, right before sunrise. 

Leith, you curse, and rip off a bit of parchment from your notebook, hastily penning a note:

“I know what you did. Menace.

… Thank you. x”

Just for luck, you kiss the note and head back outside. You whistle loudly with both pinkies in your mouth, catching the attention of a missive runner not too far off. He runs up to you.

“Ma'am?”

“Take this to Leith, mercenary quarters. And make sure he gets it. Oh, wait—” you rush back inside, and grab a strawberry hard candy and tack it to the note with a bandaid the shape of a heart/butt. 

You hand it over and tell him to be careful, but to run before Leith leaves on a mission. Wistfully, you watch him leave as you broom off the stairs to the clinic, worry about Leith causing you to toss glances towards the mercenary headquarters every other second. You think of his skin, torn by the spine. If it’s infected, red and angry around the stitches and bothering him, or if he heeded your advice to take a bath; the milky water sinking into his skin, knitting his flesh. Strands of his long hair plastered to his chest… With an exasperated huff, you turn to go inside— you have a fever to battle after all, one you can now finally quench with a potion you have been wanting to brew for many months. With as many pristine examples of the orchid that Leith gave you, you can make enough to have a stash for the entire year. Turning your huff into a sigh of deep relief, you walk into your office and cast a hopeful glance at the alchemic station within it.

A continuous stream of milky mist pours out of the humidifier while you wash your florence flasks and equipment. You pick out containers of dried daisies, feathered tongue of frogcats, slime of snail and dried muscat from your library of ingredients, all stashed neatly in a hutch with a thousand drawers, all unlabeled. To an untrained eye, it is chaos, but you know exactly where everything belongs, and even if you didn’t, you’ve been in the trade since you were a child, running after your [mother]/father/grandfather/aunt while she taught you the smells and signs of a good ingredient. You run your fingers on the frame of her picture as you pass it, missing them yet, although her grating voice still rings loud in your ears. Don't do this, don't do that, my, you are hopeless, what will become of you? 

She meant well.

Your [mother] was the reason you still weren’t immortal; saying that the well takes as much as it gives: your senses would be forever altered. She said it was far too great a risk, seeing as impaired you were already, not even knowing the difference between dandelion root and leaf. But you did know, and never told, that the mistake was hers and the labels in her pen. Nevertheless, the constant vigilance made you meticulous, knowing every ingredient by touch and smell alone. You tore every label off when she died, scrubbing every last sign of them and taught yourself to recognize your ingredients for months and months, finding joy and vindication in the act.

Perhaps that is why you were the most sought after healer in town, because you were the only one who wasn’t touched by the wells' water. By some, it earned you scorn and disgusted looks, as it was a privilege to even get invited to transform, but you stood by your decision to not turn, and it had served you well. You wouldn’t have been able to identify all your herbs and minerals with the nose of a druna, and the daylight-impaired vision of a bloodkell would have made your job difficult out in the field. You could turn and hope that the waters' whims let you remain human, but in lack of an emergency that would drive you to risk it all, you had remained yourself and hoped to live your life in your current body.

You run a finger along the listed recipes and find Drought of Well Fever Cure (not suitable for blood-kells) on the thirtieth page of the listed content. Generations of handwriting fills these pages, history of medical research, and intragenerational bickering breathing in every inkblot; crossed out lines, the words ostensibly written with anger over and over, some pages completely redacted with fat markers and the words ‘incompetent fools’ scribbled in the corner the only thing left. The enormous tome doesn’t even fit in any drawer anymore, but sits on your desk in its self-made indentation, loose pages sticking out and herbs pressed amongst many of them. Flipping the pages, a scent you can only describe as home lingers in the space above it. 

There. 

Your finger snags on the line on how to prepare the milk of the orchid. It was written by your [mother], her writing almost identical to yours, the way she crossed her t’s and dotted her i’s.

Carefully crush the flower in the mortar you will use for the rest of the process. Ensure readiness of all listed ingredients before embarking, for the milk of the orchid spoils quickly. For ease, use two separate mortars to prepare other ingredients. Humidity must be high in the room or the milk will sour in just seconds. Close all windows and doors and place towels to ensure no dry air gets inside. For best results, work in darkness with at most one dim floating lantern at shoulder height.

Not that difficult then, only the slightest mistake and you would have ruined the whole batch. You chew on your cheek, thinking of how to approach: 

[choice]

• brew a smaller batch and see how well it goes and hope that you don’t spoil the rest of the flowers while doing so.

• all or nothing. if you brew a smaller batch and it doesn’t turn out, it would be a waste. better to be well prepared and cautious for the whole thing instead.

After setting up your mise en place of ingredients, you close the windows, their shutters and then the doors, placing thick woolen stoppers beneath their wobbly gaps. A soft hush envelopes the room, a stillness you rarely indulge in when the clinic is so busy. Shadows twist and curl along the shelved walls, cast by the fist-sized bulbous lantern, its light hovering like a firefly above your left shoulder. The lantern's glow is gentle, intimate, allowing only the essentials to emerge from the darkness: the polished surface of the workbench, the glint of glass vials, and the waiting ingredients arranged like offerings.

Once done with the other preparations, you select the orchid, its pale, mottled petals delicate as the inside of a cat's ears, and lay it tenderly in the awaiting mortar. Your heart drums a steady rhythm beneath your ribs, and you follow your mothers advice of twisting the pestle alongside it, ignoring the whispering scorn that fuels your conscientiousness. The cool texture of the stone feels reassuring beneath your fingers, grounding you as your nerves begin to churn out doubt from the back of your mind. You grind the flowers until their shape completely disintegrates into paste, and their scent begins to rise to your nostrils— a gentle one, not the heady perfume of rosen petals, this instead reminds you of winter when it yields to spring, the crisp of frosty mornings and blossoms of fruit trees, together with something bitter, tangy, unpleasant. When that smell lingers around the edges of your senses, like spoiled cheese hiding in the back of the fridge, you know that the milk is fully extracted and you quickly move to the next step, boiling and separating the milk into its vital components. It takes a while, your chest squeezing at every crucial moment, and sweat begins to gather on your brow. Second by second, measure by measure, you reach the finish line and nearly squeal with joy as the serum is complete. You hold it in, but cast a glare towards the portrait of your [mother] and stick out your tongue in a childish act of defiance. 

You carefully measure the now opalescent substance into small vials, watching as it pools together with the rest of the ingredients in a creamy swirl. Putting a stopper in each vial right after pouring, pride washes over you. Done. Eight vital vials, and only a drop or two needed per patient and dosing. Your breath is steady, almost reverent, as you re-open the windows and doors, allowing yourself a bright smile. Time to save Mina. I can do it.

<page break>

Walking through the hall of beds, most of them occupied by patients with various ailments— the man whose leg you had to amputate in a rush just last week, three women awaiting a dangerous labor, and four beds occupied with people who had drank the water of the well, and then one that held you in hours of surgery, rearranging their spilled innards after a nasty fight: the dangerous kingpin of Riven’s underground smuggler ring. She is currently showing Mina how she makes a coin travel across all her knuckles before making it disappear. She winks as you approach, and when you place your palm on her forehead, she pulls the coin from behind your ear with a flourish. “For being the beauty that you are, doc.”

You wave it away/stash it in your apron and tut at her. She looks frail, still.  “You should really rest, try to sleep.”

With a salute, she thuds her head down onto her pillow and snores loudly. You shake your head, as unimpressed as Mina, who has hidden half her face beneath her threadbare cover. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” you say as you turn to approach her bedside, watching her glossy eyes blink, her cheeks flushed with fever. You hold the warm cup in your hand, mostly chamomile tea and then two drops of your paphiopedilum serum. The scent is fresh and vivid, a promise of relief. "Drink this for me?" you whisper, brushing a damp curl from her forehead. She shakes her head and pulls the blanket higher, her eyes wide and fearful, searching the corners of the room. A clover sprouts on her ear.

“Where’s my mother?” she cries, her voice small, haunting.

“She’s at church, I believe. She’ll be here soon,” you assure her, though your heart sinks. You need her to drink, to fight this fever. That is all that matters. “This will help you feel better. I made it just for you.”

But Mina shakes her head, the fear in her gaze deepening. Your heart breaks, rage simmering in your veins. You think of Leith’s words yesterday; the parents, jailed. And who will care for this girl? Her druna horns are already curling out of her temples, her bones surely aching. She will never be able to leave Riven undetected; she won’t even see old age until at least half a millennium. Your lip wobbles with pain for this child. You take her hand and cradle it in yours. “How about I help? If I get a spoon, and you take at least five mouthfuls, you can have as much candy as you wish?”

Something glitters in her eyes, but it is swiftly stolen as the door slams open.

You flinch as it does, and every hair on your body rising with promise of danger as heavy footfalls make their way into the patient room. It is either an emergency surgery, or even worse. Something tells you it is the latter.

Two clergymen in shining steel armor burst in, their faces obscured by the visors of their helmets, their dedication to a mechanical god on display with their mechanical suits, hissing and sputtering with steam.

“Step aside,” one barks, his voice like the crack of thunder from within the helmet. “We are here for the girl.”

It’s worse than worse. Panic claws at your insides. “What for?” you manage to say, your voice shaking, getting up to stand protectively before the girls bed.

The child clutches the blanket, eyes darting from you to the intruders. “I want mom!” she wails, her small body shivering violently, the fever still raging, the fear exacerbating it.

“She belongs to the holy order of Oakwerth, The Ormr Church and its choir of orphans.”

Your hands tremble, the draught slipping from your fingers to the floor, shattering against it. The choir? You glance between the child and the armored men, the weight of your choices heavy as stone. Time stretches, taut and trembling, as you consider your next move. If only you could call for Leith, or Ida, or any one else that is strong enough to face these monsters of men. You spare a glance towards the kingpin, but the lousy kell still pretends to sleep. She cracks one eye open into a barely noticeable slit and sends you a look that speaks for itself. Not my problem. 

You grind your teeth, and the men advance, one placing his hands on you to move you out the way. And you break, pushing against it with an indignant yell. 

“You cannot take her. She is not an orphan, her parents are here! They were jailed by the druid order, the, the—” you stomp your foot, tired of stumbling over your words out of rage. “The mercenaries have them in for questioning!”

“Her parents have signed the contract and received their payment. The child belongs to the Ormr church.”

“You cannot be serious! She has rights!”

“Step aside.” One of the guards pushes you so hard you stumble backwards and barely retain your balance. Once you catch yourself on a creaking bed frame, the other guard has already picked Mina up in his arms and is walking out with her wailing in his arms, her weak limbs pounding on his chestplate. Your voice cracks as you shout after them, 

“You heartless animals!/At least let me medicate her before you leave! / This is not right!” but it falls on deaf ears as they walk away. 

<page break>

You run, run through the town square, your open coat streaming behind you, across the harbor and darting over two side streets before you reach the mercenary quarters. You need to find Leith. Every patient in the room, apart from the kingpin, ushered you out with urgency to save the girl. You feel their support push you forward, past your [mothers] words at the front of your mind, heckling you for even trying.

You burst into the mercenary quarters, breathless, your heart a racing horse. The air is thick with tension and the scent of sweat and leather. You hear raised voices, and then Leiths roar, and hurry towards it.

There, in the back of their office, you find him through the warped glass of the door to the interrogation room, his brow furrowed as he leans over the child’s parents. The mother’s eyes are hollow, while the father scowls, arms crossed defiantly.

“Leith!” you gasp as you burst in, grasping his arm. “The men—they’re taking Mina! The clergy stormed in, and—”

The father interrupts, venom lacing his words. “That is none of your business, healer. She is our child.”

A chill sweeps through you, and you feel the room tighten with your anxiety. Leith’s gaze sharpens, his expression shifting into something primal. “How do you live with yourself,” he growls, stepping closer to the father, his movements a coiled spring ready to unleash, his muscles bunched. He rolls up his sleeves, stepping into the father's space, and leans down. “There's a special place in hell, for cowards like you.”

“My family is my business,” the father sneers, “And you need to back off or I’ll—” but Leith’s presence looms larger, his brow lowering with challenge. You watch as Leith’s jaw works, his teeth grinding down the urge to snap the man's neck and be done with it. He takes a deep breath and releases it through his nose, painfully slow. 

“Speak another word like that, and you’ll find out just how little I tolerate threats,” he says, voice low and deceptively calm, but unwavering. You can see the flicker of fear in the father’s eyes, but it switches into defiance with a haste that has you catching your breath.

“Leith, please,” you urge, scared of what will happen if the two men collide. Imagery of Leiths blood covering your hands makes your stomach turn. “We need to focus on the girl. We can’t let them take her to Oakwerth. She will die.”

He turns his gaze to you, the storm in his eyes softening just enough. The father gets out of his seat while Leith is turned, his new threat garbled instantly as Leith’s hand finds his throat before he completes his sentence. Leith turns slowly towards the man, the softness in his gaze completely overtaken by pure rage. “No.” He growls, and removes his hand. The father hasn’t had enough yet, it seems: he lunges for you yet again, his breath still caught in his throat.

As the father lunges forward, Leith’s movements blur. He grabs the man by the collar, lifting him off the ground, eyes blazing, shoving the father into the wall behind his seat with a crack. Mercy. The father roars something ending with bitch and Leith snaps, punching the wall beside his head, splintered wood and dust flying into the air.  

“Not my healer.” he warns, his voice a hot knife slicing the air. “I will take your life” he shoves the father into the back of his chair, grasping his neck and pressing him into the table as he leans over to snarl, ”and toy with it like you did your daughters.”

The father begins to sputter, but sits obediently after Leith lets go, and the mother hangs her head in her hands, sobs escaping between her panicked breaths. Leith takes you by the elbow and rapidly escorts you out of the room, his emotions electrifying the air around him.

“They took her?” he asks when he shuts the door behind him, looking over your head at a colleague, some understanding found between them as he nods. He turns his gaze to you, his hands running from your elbow to your hands, tugging gently in a silent question for you to follow. “My office, come.”

You stare at him, shocked still, but allowing the reality of the situation to settle enough that you nearly double over with the fear of losing Mina to Oakwerth. Leith catches you and squeezes you close as you let a single, heartbreaking sob out. You nearly fool yourself to think that the battle is won, with how reassuring his embrace feels. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” you murmur into his chest, “sorry. We have to focus on Mina. They said they were taking her to the choir?”

Leith stiffens.

You make to leave his embrace, to start explaining so you can solve this, but Leith only presses you closer. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m so sorry—for letting you see that, for losing Mina.” His breath smells like strawberries and sugar.

“Leith, what do you mean? We have to go after her—” you press him away, dread pooling in your stomach. You stare into his eyes, and sure enough, his eyes are laden with the kind of injustice that breaks people's minds.

 “It is out of our jurisdiction. The druids are as angry as we are, but if we interfere—”

“No. What is the choir?” you ask, desperately not wanting to know.

For a second, it looks like Leith carries the world’s accumulative rage in his heart, but only for a second, before it gives way to despondency. “If we interfere, Oakwerth will pull their shit. They have too much leverage, the wells location the least of it all.”

Tears well up/ you pound a fist on his chest. Your insides writhe with hopelessness. “This isn’t like you. There must be something—”

Leith kisses the top of your head, squeezes you close. “We can punish the parents. They think they can circumvent us by going to Oakwerth for money or power or gods knows what, but our laws still stand. We can’t get her back, but we can punish them.” 

You look up at Leith. “Something- we have to do something. Oakwerth can't just pluck children from their families, and for what? What do they use them for?” Even as you say it, the word use sits so foul in your mouth that your gut threatens to turn.

He leans back against the door, runs a hand over his face. “The choir is a new initiative from the Ormr church on the Vicars orders. They pay parents, or grant them ‘asylum’ within the capitol, if they hand their children over after drinking the water of the well. The high priestess of the druid order sanctioned it to allow unwilling parents a break? They don’t tell us the details—” he takes a deep breath, grasping your shoulders. He looks like he is about to reveal something horrid. “You know that we can do this my way.”

“Out of the question.” You wipe an angry tear from your cheek with your sleeve.

“Then there is nothing we can do”. He follows the trail of your shirt with his thumb.

You chew on your cheek, waning and wanting some justice for Mina. For every child homed with loveless, ruthless parents. With a glare, you relent.

“What do you propose?”