Chapter Text
The gentle rapping at her door would not have been nearly enough to wake her. Not the least for the fact that had she been sleeping, it would’ve been in the vast hall of the barracks.
Clearly the one looking for her had found this out already, as the knocking persisted.
She let out a huff and the smoke curled around her, filling the small space of her laboratory and drenching it in a thick herbal scent. She had hoped for it to lull her to peaceful slumber, a thing which did not come easy to her as of late.
Two weeks had passed since she last emerged from the depths of the Warrens. Not even in such a bad shape – they had all survived, gathered enough for both them and the Heiress to deem the expedition a raging success.
Yet still she had that thing before her everytime she closed her eyes. At the time she marveled at the mess of flesh, remaking itself before their very eyes, each part serving its own purpose. A wonder of evolution, however disgusting and unholy. But the moment the last blow was dealt, as Reynauld tore his sword out of the mangled meat, the only thing that stayed with her were the multiple beady eyes of the head, moments before it bore its teeth into her and nearly tore off her whole arm.
Her shoulder still pulsed with bouts of pain, even after Junia had spent the night over her, almost drained of life from the healing and barely able to speak after hours of praying.
That was two weeks ago. Now she could hear the Vestal’s voice through the door, clear and careful, as if she was afraid of potentially interrupting something important. Which she was, in all honesty, but the herb-laced cigar was already on its last puffs and still no semblance of sleep was coming.
So it was that the door swung open after a while, and Paracelsus squinted against the unexpected shine of the moon, high up in the night sky. Quickly she lowered her gaze, and after a while could distinguish the details of Junia’s face, a few strands of hair escaping its cover – clearly done in a haste.
“I do hope I am not interrupting,” she quickly seeks to apologize, “But, um, there is-Best you see for yourself.”
Paracelsus is inclined to argue about the importance of interrupting her rituals at the dead of night, but then she realises the severity of the situation. Junia is awake, not slumbering soundly in the spare rooms of the abbey. They must’ve woken her up.
“Something with the others?”
The Vestal shakes her head, and Paracelsus breathes a soft sigh of relief, “In the centre, by the statue. There-there’s a man.”
A small gathering of townsfolk has taken up residence by the Ancestor’s crumbled stone form. They stand in a circle, and Paracelsus cannot shake the image of carrion birds from her mind. Some hold lanterns or torches, to light whatever they’re all gawking at, and they do not seem too willing to move as Junia announces their arrival. Her voice is too soft.
“Move aside!” Paracelsus claps her hands and over a dozen eyes spring in her direction, “Unless you’re willing to partake in a doctor’s work from either end.”
Someone among them grunts and she is ready to call out again, when finally the circle begins to part, however slow. That’s when she sees him.
Him, or it – a man or a cadaver. She cannot tell from such a distance, so her steps carry her closer, Junia a mere foot behind her. The body lays on its stomach, clad in a dark coat which mostly obscures the face. When no one offers, Paracelsus snatches one of the lanterns, leaving Junia to calm the robbed man as she crouches closer, hand snaking up to draw the collar of the coat down.
In the warm light she sees a face – pale, gaunt, unmoving. There’s dried blood underneath the man’s nose, although the scar which crosses it seems old.
When she sees no movement, she holds the back of her hand before the man’s mouth. It’s a windless night. Perfect for detecting even the faintest of breaths.
There. A tiny sliver of air presses against her skin and she raises her eyes to see Junia, expression tight in anticipation.
“Get a stretcher from the Sanitarium, and take him to my study,” she addresses the townsfolk, “He’s still alive.”
Still alive might have been an overstatement. Barely is a better term, Paracelsus muses as she stands over the man, now laid upon the slab which she had designated her operating table. Turned on his back now, she can clearly see the small movement of his chest, and when she presses her ear close she hears the unmistakable thrum of a heartbeat, however slow.
“The townsfolk just found him there,” Junia recounts as she assists with getting the man out of his overcoat, “One eventually came running up to the abbey, seeking help.”
“And the good abbot sent you out instead of coming down himself?”
“He figured my prowess might prove more useful. But I…I was not sure if it would be of any use for this poor soul.”
“If your holy Light wouldn’t be enough for him, what makes you think I would be able to help?”
“I supposed…” the rest of the sentence hangs in the air, and the herbs might have actually worked their magic because it takes Paracelsus a good while before realising the implication, which Junia is too hesitant to state.
She wouldn’t shy away from taking him in either state, alive or dead.
And for what it’s worth, Paracelsus has to agree with that implication. Even now – the man either survives, or she gains a body for her research. She eyes his face, placing a number to it eventually.
Potential subject #152 lays still, even as his coat is taken. Even as his belt is removed, and with it a small metal crossbow in a holster and what seems to be a pouch with bolts. Even as Paracelsus begins to fidget with the buttons of his shirt, while Junia crosses herself before removing his boots and trousers, as she is instructed by the physic.
It’s not long before the two women stand above the almost naked man, one in piqued interest and the other in thinly-veiled embarrassment.
The body copies the face. Pale and gaunt, outlines of bones jutting out sharply against the skin. It too has its fair amount of scars, and to her surprise it is crossed by a number of dark lines, forming various tattoos.
But it also harbors plenty of wounds, fresh or healing. Paracelsus fixates on the biggest – a long gash across the abdomen, the black stitches that seemingly used to hold it together torn, allowing it to gape and leak both blood and puss.
“By the Light,” she hears Junia sigh, while she leans in close to study the cut. An ugly thing it is, the stitching is neat, but it had clearly been torn anew just before it could heal per primam intentionem. She eyes the unconscious man with narrowed eyes.
Do not even think of ruining my work by more recklessness.
The only answer she receives is a wheeze, escaping his cracked lips.
“Go get some more rest, Sister,” Paracelsus rises, headed for the cabinets to gather supplies.
“Are you sure? I can be of assistance, maybe I could-”
“I do not need an assistant who’s flustered at the sight of an exposed man,” it comes out more hostile than she intends, so she turns around to meet Junia’s eyes, “And his wounds need to be properly cleaned. You close this with your Light, and he’ll rot from the inside.”
She looks hurt, but eventually nods, “I will come in the morning then, to check up on you.”
“Do as you wish,” Paracelsus waves her hand, already deeply concentrated on her work.
She does catch Junia placing a hand upon the man’s chest, whispering a quick prayer before she wishes good luck and is out the door, into the chilly night.
Paracelsus leans against the cabinet, mortar and pestle already in hand as she grinds the mixed herbs and stares at Potential subject #152.
The scent from the cigar still hangs in the air.
She wonders if her leeches will work better or worse under its influence.
───·𝖣·⧖·ꓷ·───
The smell hits him first. It’s sweet flowers and sharp herbs and the softest inkling of tobacco and it makes his head swim. He breathes in deeper, lapping up as much as he can, welcoming the dulling of the senses – and then his throat seizes.
Because he realises.
Because he suddenly knows that there is a scent, and that he’s pleased by it. And that he breathes and feels something cold and hard beneath him and somewhere something pulls at his skin.
He’s alive.
His eyes shoot open and in panic he tries to rise but there is suddenly an immense pressure against his chest and into his view comes a figure, a thing with wide black eyes and a beak stretching towards him. He tries to scream but his throat is dry and his head swims and it hurts, everything hurts and something is pulling him apart or together and he just wants it to stop please make it all stop please-
“Move like that some more and I will stun you,” the beaked thing speaks, voice hollow and distant, “I’m told the headache afterwards is not worth it.”
No words are formed and he just wheezes, eyes watering from the exertion. A few more moments of resistance before his muscles give out from under him and he collapses, the back of his head hitting the surface beneath him hard and luring a hiss out of him. Through the tears he watches the figure, now hazy and even more monstrous, as it turns its beak towards the rest of him.
His abdomen, he comes to realise. That’s where that insistent tugging is.
That’s where the cut was.
He knows better than to move quickly now, as slowly his mind registers just how much everything aches. With a grunt he raises his head, blinking away tears and he tries to focus on the centre of his concern. All he sees is red and something dark, plastered across his stomach. He doesn’t know if it’s just his vision swimming or if those black spots are actually moving.
“They’re working wonderfully,” his eyes turn to the figure, and soon he is able to discern the long dark robes, lined with chains and belts and all sorts of vials and herbs. Gloved fingers are hard at work, jotting something down into a worn ledger. The beak – a mask, he’s slow to realise – bobs up and down from the pages to him.
“A bit more and then the wound can be sewn over. Light protect you if you tear those stitches, because I will not be fixing you up again.”
Against the pain and fatigue he manages to prop himself up on his elbows, to get a better look. He freezes when his vision clears enough. There, around the red gaping wound sit five wriggling worms, shaking with excitement as they feast upon his blood. A scream builds up in him, but catches in his throat, as realisation hits him – his abdomen is the only thing spared of the incessant aching.
For a while he stares at the leeches, dumbfounded, before he hears the rustle of fabric.
He turns his head to see the mask coming off, and from behind it appears a small round face, hidden partly among a thicket of short dark hair. The woman’s eyes are underlined with dark circles, but they still pierce through him when their gazes meet. Her mouth is a thin line as she studies him, and he tries his best not to cower.
“Where…” he finally manages to form words, although they scrape against his throat, “Where am I?”
She seems slightly surprised by that question, “The Hamlet, where else?” she says, matter-of-factly.
As if he should know of someplace called the Hamlet. As if it was always meant to be his final destination.
He looks around some more. They’re in a small room, walls and floor of dark stones. Few cabinets and tables around, overflowing with glass jars and tools which seem fit for a torturer. There are strings of dried herbs decorating the wall behind the woman, and in the corner he can see a shelf bending under the weight of the books atop it. All is bathed in the warm light of several lanterns.
None of that makes it clearer to him what the Hamlet is meant to be.
But it does cement a painful truth in him.
He’s still alive.
“Do you have a name?”
“I-what?”
“A name,” she clicks her tongue in irritation, “Can’t call you Potential subject #152 anymore, now that you’re sure to live.”
“Potential…How close was I?”
Now it’s her turn to look confused.
“To dying. How close was I?” he hates the desperation that seeps from his voice.
“I do believe the townsfolk found you on death’s door,” she ponders, the charcoal stick she pats against her lips leaving a black dot upon them, “If they didn’t, you’d most likely not have survived until morning.”
And she clearly expects him to rejoice, to thank the good folk of the Hamlet.
But he just sits, expression empty as a pit forms in his stomach. He wishes the leeches would rebel and take all his blood.
“Berend,” he sighs, knowing the doctor is still expecting an answer.
“My name is Berend.”
───·𝖣·⧖·ꓷ·───
“You know, I reckon there are more comfortable places to sit and bask in the sun,” the voice is followed by a clearly deliberate blocking of the sunrays, which causes Junia to sigh and open her eyes.
“Good morning to you too, Dismas.”
“A bloody awful morning it is,” the Highwayman grunts, scratching at the stubble on his cheek, “Really feeling the leg since waking up.”
He makes a show of circling his right ankle around, the crack of it making Junia twitch. A healed injury, of course. But however well the Occultist was able to set bones and mend skin and flesh, nothing was ever perfectly fixed. The same went for the powers of the Light, wielded by her and Reynauld, to some extent. She knew that Paracelsus still complained about her shoulder, despite her best efforts.
Such was the cost of still being alive, against all odds. She knew it, and was sure Dismas knew it as well.
He however liked to complain about everything.
“What’s so fun about this spot anyway?” he plops down next to her, granting her the warmth of the morning sun again.
“You haven’t heard?”
“Sister, you know you have to be more specific. I hear a lot of things.”
“We found a man by the statue,” his eyes follow as she points, “In the night. Paracelsus took him in, he was barely alive. I promised to come check on them in the morning.”
“Uh-huh,” she feels Dismas’ dark eyes studying her, “I do believe ‘checking on’ includes actually going inside and seeing them.”
“That’s, um, well-” she feels her cheeks burn in embarrassment and knows he’s smirking under his neckerchief, “I do not know if he survived, you see. So I can’t be sure if…”
“If you’d walk in on an alive patient or a dissected body.” he finishes for her, and she can only nod.
“Such is the burden of our situation, dear Junia,” he sprawls across the stairs, basking in the sun like a cat, “Not like you haven’t seen worse around the Estate.”
“I suppose, but…This is different. I saw him alive, no matter how barely. And-and I certainly do not need to see his body in that state.”
Dismas ponders for a while, then clearly decides upon something and sighs, “Yeah, not sure I’d want that sight burned into my mind either.”
They sit in silence for a while, surprisingly content in each other's company. Until Junia turns back to face him, “I have not seen Sir Reynauld around, where is he?”
“Guild,” Dismas waves his hand in the general direction, “Went off before dawn to the abbey, then to the guild. The Heiress wants to know what could be improved there, so of course he jumped at that responsibility.”
“Before dawn…You were awake before dawn?”
“Sometimes I don’t go to sleep before dawn.”
“Not today. You would know about the man then.”
“He woke me up,” Dismas mumbles behind the red fabric, “Still hasn’t taken my advice on occupying a bottom bunk, and the ladder creaks something fierce under him.”
“You could’ve accompanied him to the abbey. Finally see it for yourself.”
“Sister, I would burn upon stepping in the Light’s temple.”
That is a possibility, she thinks. Then chastises herself.
“Ah, speak of the devil,” Dismas clearly relishes at the frown his words lure from the newcomer, as he makes his way across the clearing towards them. Reynauld still towers over most, a figure of unshakable stability and resolve, even without the guard of his armour and sword. His expression softens as he meets Junia’s gaze, “Fine morning we have today, Sister. Say, is this man bothering you?”
“No more than usual,” she replies with a smile.
“Don’t act as if you do not enjoy my company, Junia. And you,” Dismas sits up and jabs a finger in Reynauld’s direction, “Bottom bunk from now on. I swear that ladder will break under you one day.”
“Is that an insult or are you concerned about my well being?”
“I’m concerned about my sleep not being interrupted.”
“At least it got you out of bed earlier, and you can enjoy this fine sun-drenched morning.”
There is something in the air between the two, and Junia cannot grasp it.
“Anyway, what are you waiting for here? Is something going on with the doctor?” as Reynauld sits besides Junia, she begins to recount the night’s events. The Crusader only nods occasionally, blue-grey eyes glancing towards the door of the physic’s study. Sometimes catching on Dismas, who’s back to trying to find a comfortable position on the rough stone steps.
“Curious,” Reynauld muses when she finishes, “So he did not arrive with the carriage?”
“I can’t imagine the Caretaker would bring someone in the middle of the night. And then just discard them in the square.”
“That I can imagine,” Dismas mutters.
“It means the Heiress did not have him brought in.”
“There was no other carriage, nor horse around,” Junia frowns, “And he looked half starved, aside from all the injuries. Heaven knows how long he had been wandering out there.”
“Wandering the Old Road…That’s not something one usually does, is it?” Reynauld’s eyes are back on Dismas, who can’t stifle the bark of a laugh that leaves him.
“Wandering it? No, no. That’s suicide. Even walking it with purpose is a gamble.”
“He must’ve been seeking help. Some refuge.” Junia speaks up, and blisters at the amused look Dismas gives her
“Some refuge – Dearest Junia, have you seen this place? Why would anyone come to this shithole, if not on the Heiress’ contract?”
She wants to argue, wants to convince him of the potential of the Hamlet, when the door creaks behind them. All three turn on cue, to see Paracelsus emerge, cursing as the sun hits her square in the face.
“Dim your damned Light, people,” she hisses and rubs at her eyes, and for once Junia can’t bring herself to chastise her for such harsh words. The beaked mask hangs from her neck, and when she gets used to the sunshine, she reveals an expression overcome with exhaustion.
“Paracelsus,” Junia is on her feet then, walking closer, “Is he…”
“Alive,” the doctor doesn’t sound too happy. Maybe she had wished for a cadaver more, “I stitched him back together, he’s resting. I figured it might be good to go find him something to eat.”
“Oh blessed be the Light,” Junia sighs in relief, clasping her hands together.
“And-And you, of course. It is your work, after all,” she adds when irritation flashes in Paracelsus’ eyes, “Say, how about I get him something to eat? You should rest up, being awake all night.”
“Someone should watch over him. He’s-”
“Let us take care of it, doctor,” Reynauld rises, the sun like a halo behind his head, “We’ll keep an eye on him while Junia gathers the meal.”
“We’ll do no such thing.” Dismas speaks up, and three pairs of eyes are on him then, in various levels of disbelief.
“You can do whatever,” he jumps up while addressing The Crusader, a playful smirk showing from under his neckerchief as he extends his hand towards Paracelsus.
“I however simply must see to it that our doctor gets a proper breakfast and rest. Ain’t that right, doc?”
She watches his hand, all too knowledgeable of the fact he simply wants to shirk any responsibility, but then a spark appears in her eyes.
“Well, if you are so kind as to offer to pay for my meal, I cannot say no, now can I?”
“Ah, I had said nothing of paying for-”
“Such a gentleman you are, Dismas. And before witnesses too.”
“You are putting words in my mouth, woman.” he protests, but can’t withdraw his hand anymore, for Paracelsus grips it firmly with a wide grin, “Let us go then, while the tavern still serves breakfast!”
Junia can’t help but giggle at how Dismas deflates and dejectedly offers an arm for Paracelsus to hold onto, his scheme slightly soured.
“Reynauld,” the doctor turns before departing, catching the man’s eyes.
“Do make sure he does not leave,” her voice suddenly serious, “I think if he does, he might wish to finish the job.”