Theurgy: The Journey's Dawn (Book One)

Chapter 12 The Fated Choice

"I don't know," Edlund admitted, shivering as the fingers trailed bruise on his shoulder, and the burns from when he touched the armor. "I'd like to have a name to tell my ancestors in the afterlife."

"Ah, I see. Forgive me for the Matron did not give us proper names." Edlund couldn't guess at what kind of smile laid beyond those beady eyes, almost lifeless. "You can tell them that Loimós sent you. But don't worry, these injuries are nothing severe."

He was right at least. Some balms and ointments for the burns, a few stitches and bandages, he would be good as new. He was not quite fully aware of how much he soldiered in that dungeon. The burns received when in contact with that flaming serpent were still quite visible across his chest. The cuts and bruises from the Lamia were certainly pulsing every now and again. And the beating he got in return from that giant man was still relatively fresh. Yet, in just an hour, he was mostly patched up and ready to go. And he spent that hour in deep contemplation, deeper than ever before. He thought all the way back to his days training under the knight Gabbes. Running till his lungs burned and his arms felt like bleeding. Running, faster than those he trained with, faster than Lyse. Lifting large rocks as large as a man and putting cracks into them with bleeding knuckles. Yet, when it came to a waster training, taking those wooden swords, Lyse would have him at the point each and every time.

He clutched his bedsheets. Fate, where do I even go from here?

When Loimós finished bandaging the last of the cuts, he began to gather his instrument to take to a sink, a round metal tub filled with strange-smelling water in the corner of the room. The doctor tossed whatever he used on Edlund into the water, taking a cloth and washing them as thoroughly as possible. In the meantime, Elena walked in, still a little inebriated from the stronger ales that she brought to the table, but only manifested in her rosy cheeks. Those same furrowed brows and angular features remained stoic as always.

"Had fun you two?" Edlund jeered.

"Lyse turned in early, I just came to see how Gray is doing," she told him as she strode into the room, stopping seeing Loimós in the corner washing his tools. "Good to see you. Treating your patients well I hope?"

"Ah, Elena, a pleasure," he turned on his heels, grabbing a new set of black gloves from a stack next to the sink. His beak raised a bit in acknowledgment, a pleasant tone ensued. "It has been a while, daughter of Atticus Rosenwald."

"My father often came by here," Elena explained to Edlund, who gave her an odd, and puzzled look. "We would collect special herbs for him, along with some other extravagant ingredients. I swear he might be trying to make his own lab of abominations."

Edlund gulped, his throat suddenly tightening at the thought. "I must say, doctor, your case on whether or not I should trust you is not very strong. It's almost damning evidence to the contrary."

"Oh please," the doctor closed his black leather bag, it's contents clanking and scraping so uncomfortably, Edlund shivered in his position. "I leave such things to Vince of Hath. Where they seek mere satisfaction in advancements, I find it in mending those that are broken, two different paths my boy. Now, you shall rest for this night. Your wounds would at least healed over a week's worth at that time. It will leave less than a scar. You, my dear, what is the purpose of your visit?"

"I came to check on Gray," she walked over to his bedside, his steadily sleeping figure lying sprawled on the raised cot and his wounds recently tended to. Still, there was a stiffness in how he slept, as if she could see something holding his body in that uncomfortable position. His skin was still red, although lessening now. She saw how bad it could have gotten if he used that blade even once more. And yet, she still asked the doctor that question.