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Tala lay upon the cool moss in the shade of a great oak. Her face, caught in the dying rays of the blood-orange sun, was lit in a cruel light. Eyal ran a hand against her cheek, and she grimaced with a wistful smile.

"Tala, be strong." His voice shook. Too much running, not enough time for care.

"It's the way of things," she said quietly.

"No. I won't let it."

"The rain does not care for the mountain."

"Chew," Eyal said in place of an answer. He held the birchwood in his hand, bark stripped from one of the trees that grew near their village. Tala took it between teeth, moving her head between throbbing pain and sweet relief as the sap leached out.

"The old women make this look so easy," he muttered between gritted teeth, digging through his satchel.

"You are not an old woman."

"But you shall be. One day."

"Careful," Tala said, a momentary smile flashing across her face. Or was it just the dying sun.

"Thyme?"

"For cooking."

"Roostfern?"

"I'm not pregnant."

"Ginnyweed?"

"Only a little."

Eyal broke a small branch from the bundle, the elongated buds smelling dark and bitter. He cupped it close to Tala's mouth.

"The wound," she said instead, releasing the pressure from her abdomen. "Press it in." A momentary hiss. "That's better."

"There's too much blood." Eyal rocked back and forth, his motion a contrast to that of his companions. "Too much."

"Fetch a rock."

"Tala..."

"Fetch one. Now."

He scrambled away. Hands clawing at dirt, bushes, anything. Already twilight was growing. The dark greens giving way to black. He rushed onwards, finding a scraggly rock on the banks of a slow moving stream. It was wet in his hands. Water and tears.

"Tala, Tala please tell me," he begged, kneeling beside her.

She lifted a hand slowly and guided his own to her wound. The blade had pierced deeply. The rock sat on her belly, it's wetness running off into her tattered cloak.

"Tala..."

"Think of me," she said.

"I am."

"Think of us."

"I will."

"Think of the child."

His voice broke. "I do."

Eyal could feel the slick rock beneath his hands. The shuddering breath of his wife. His grip faltered, too wet, too long they had waited before stopping. But they had to run.

"Think, and the world will be."

"Tala?"

He could feel the coolness of the rock. The wetness. Looking down he saw the cracks in the dark earth. He saw the blood run, red as dawn. He could feel it pulse, each verberation pooling and trickling into the nave of his wife's belly.

She lifted one red streaked hand and cupped his cheek.

"Like getting blood from a stone," she said quietly.

"You always were hard-headed," he said, with a smile.

This was amazing. I always admire the way writers on this sub can describe worlds in such an engaging way. 10/10, would read it again.

Simon's purpose in life was lost long ago. He'd spent quite a few nights staring at the moon's reflective on the ocean, and envisioning a plunge of no return into its depths. The waters would cool him. They'd flow around and through him, numbing him to the world as the coerced his final breaths away.

As a doctor, he knew drowning wouldn't work that way. The process would be excruciatingly painful as salty water filled his lungs and burned him. Besides that, the heroes would pull him out long before the process commenced.

They'd fly in with their shiny armor and majestic weaponry, pull him out of the water, and present him to the townspeople like a trophy. The villagers would sing their praises. "How pure are our heroes. Willing to pause their busy days to save a useless doctor." Simon would drip before them, each drop stripping a bit of his dignity to the ground as the hero would smile and fly off to slay a dragon or evil empress.

Once they left the townspeople would glare at him with contempt. They'd ridicule him for being a worthless doctor in an age of magic, painting their town in a negative light before an idol.

Yes. Drowning in the ocean would play out exactly like that. Just like every other aspect of Simon's life, he'd fail. His hospital had failed and closed years ago. Fooloshly he'd painted a red cross on a sign and placed on the front door of this house, unable to accept the truth. People didn't need medical doctors anymore. Magic beat science ages ago, he was simply a relic.

The thought pained him in more ways than one. He should have felt glad people didn't need him. That meant they were healthy. At the same time, it also meant his life's purpose was useless. A doctor with no patients is a mere man who read a science book.

In his most selfish moments, Simon would wish upon the stars for someone to fall ill. For someone to need him.

Simon sat at his study, watching those stars twinkle when a the sound of his front door opening startled him. Burglars? But he had no money. He opened his door a crack and poked his head out. Five men wandered his hall, their muddy books squeaking against the unpolished tile. A woman dangled in their arms.

The squeaks irritated Simon's ears, and the subsequent groan he produced caught the men's attention.

One of them asked, "You're the doctor, right?" The hall was dimly lit so Simon could barely make out his facial features, but his eyes were so wide the whites glowed. Simon leaned back toward his study, sensing potential danger but the man said, "My wife is sick. She needs help."

Simon froze, then frowned. Was this man taunting him? He opened the door and said, "If she's sick call a hero. The ones who can heal do so instantaneously."

The four husband shook their heads gravely as the husband said, "No. We called a bunch of them. Even Electra, but whatever she has is extreme. They can't figure it out. Doctor, plea-"

His voice trembled and trailed off into a high pitched squeak that Simon felt penetrate his body and stir his arm hair. Simon spoke as calmly as he could. "Ok. Carry her to your left. There's a room with a queen sized bed in it, place her there."

The men left as Simon grabbed a face mask and a pair of gloves from his study. They were dusty, and defeated the purpose of the equipment, but he wore them all the same. The smell of latex brought him back to his days at university, when he was young and dreamed of saving the world. He spoke those memories out of his head and walked toward his first patient in thirty years.

She lay naked on the bed, and her husband was fighting another man in the corner of the room. "You just wanted to peek. He didn't say anything about her being..." The voices trailed away from Simon as he stared at her. She lay so still. Only under the stern scrutiny, could one notice the faint and slow rise of her chest.

Simon paced to her as the sound of pounding and slamming continued. He placed a hand on her chest, then neck, then forehead. Each one was burning more violently than the last, and the heat made his own head sweat. Her eyelids twitched under his touch, and a slight relief came when her face scrunched up.

That relief vanished when the coughs started, so forceful the bed creaked under her twitching body. Simon took his hand off her like a guilty party as the sounds of fighting ceased.

"Doctor, what are you doing? Please help her." One of the men said, Simon couldn't tell who.

Her face grew crimson and purple veins popped out of her neck as she hacked.

Simon retreated. Stared. Then rushed to his medicine cabinet. Nothing but expired pills and liquids lay there. He had no money to update his stock, and doubted merchants carried the old goods anymore. He jumped as he heard a man whimper, "Please God. Please" behind him and the room closed in.

Simon's breath shook as he gripped the cabinet for support. Had he wished for this? The pills he clutched probably wouldn't do anything to help, but they were something. It went against all medical practice, but the medical field hadn't lived long enough to condemn him.

He had to try something, even if the woman died here. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't try to save her. Simon rushed back to the bed as the woman's husband stroked her hair and planted tearful kisses on her temple.

He saw Simon and opened his mouth a speak, but nothing but choking sounds came out as he hyperventilated. Simon shook the bottle of pills for no reason at all as he nodded to the man. He hoped the nod was comforting, as sign that he knew what he was doing.

Then he prayed he knew what he was doing as he opened the pills and a golden flash filled the room. The cause stood in the doorframe.

Golden eyed, tall, with blue puffy hair. The number one medical hero in the land, Electra. The air paused in her presence as she eyed Simon. "You're the doctor?"

Simon no longer wanted to be, but he nodded out of habit.

Electra walked to the bedside, and the men parted for her. She placed both hands on the woman's chest, and a blue light emitted from them.

The husband spoke, calmed by her presence. "Did you figure out what went wrong last time?"

"No." Electra said as she turned to Simon. "But you will. Place your hands on top of mine."

Simon did as told, her tone didn't leave much space for outside opinion.

"As a doctor, you know the human body better than me. I'll supply the magic, you provide the knowledge."

She carried his hands over the woman's body, and Simon felt the patients pain as if it were his. Organ failures, blood clots, several easy to miss issues compiled into a giant problem.

As he pointed issued out, Electra surged power into the spot. They operated that way for two hours before the woman was saved. She slept peacefully on the mattress afterward, with her husband sobbing into her hair. He tried mumble thanks, but his sobs disrupted every attempt.

Simon walked the other four men out of the room. The couple deserve some privacy. Electra walked alongside him, stray sparks of electricity hissing with each step.

She told him, " It'd be a shame for your talents to go to waste here. Medical knowledge is invaluable."

Simon forced a smile and said, "What makes you think I'm wasting them. I'm doing just fine."

"Uh huh," she said, swiping a finger at a passing table and showing him the dust she'd collected. "I'm a bit of a straight shooter, so you'll have to excuse me. You should work under me. That was scary, and could have been prevented if we'd detected the signs earlier." She raised a hand for him to shake.

Simon stared, considered, then shook it. "Do you think I could save people? I wouldn't be an accessory, I could actually help others?"

"Did you forget the past two hours already? Short term memory loss isn't good for a doctor."

Simon felt he could cry. He journeyed with Electra from that day on, performing preventive screening of citizens, saving lives. Though not the way he learned in school, he'd evolved, and found his purpose again. When they saw him, they labeled him one of Electra's kind.

They called him a hero, but he was still a doctor.

"Bloodroot and maidenhair, STAT." Lauren'rt cried desperately, his knitted hands pressed over the wound. Already blood was pooling in the symbols carved into the healing tree stump, activating the passive wards to promote healing and strengthen the patient lain atop, but it was like throwing a pail of water at dragonfire.

His halfling assistant, Callalily, handed him the spell components and he instantly started chanting the words of a healing spell. Warmth flowed down his arms and into his glowing hands. At the edges of the gash the flesh started to knit together again and the wound began to close. Lauren'rt let himself release a deep sigh. He glanced at his unconcious patient's near perfect elven features, agelessly beautiful with just the slightest hint of care lines around the closed eyes. The kingdom couldn't afford to lose it's queen.

Suddenly she arched her back and cried out. Something icy cold and evil seemed to writhe under his hands, like a fish from some lightless pool, deep in the depths of the netherworld. The wound reopened impossibly. "It's like it's fighting me." he muttered under his breath, then shouted "We're losing Her! Fetch the healing crystal!" Callalily seemed to teleport across the room to the shelf holding the precious stones and back.

"Link with me and we'll use it as an arcane focus." Lauren'rt cried. They quickly stood themselves on either side of her both holding the faintly effulgent crystal above her chest. "Chant Ambrosius's allcure with me on one. Three, two, one." They chanted the words of the spell together. Lauren'rt watched the colour return to the queen's pale skin as the light in the healing crystal dimmed and faded. When they said the final words it finally went out and the crystal crumbled into sparkling dust which Lauren'rt blew away while still in the air.

"That should do it." said Lauren'rt, feeling the fresh scar on the Queen's side: the unnatural cold was gone, but there was still something evil present; if sleeping for now.

"You almost lost Her." a harsh voice from across the room said "We should have known better than to trust Her to a human and his halfling pet, no matter your reputation." Lauren'rt hadn't even noticed the Prince-Consort until now, he stood resplendent in ornate golden armour, flanked by captain generals of his faction. "A simple wound like this would barely trouble a village crone amongst our people. If the Queen didn't favour you I'd have you in irons for incompetence"

"The assassin's knife was poisoned, Lord, with wyvern venon and an orphan's bitter thoughts, so we drove the posion into a spotless milk white billy goat and cut it's throat; then the wound became infected with the red rot, so we burned a statue of the Witch Goddess Heca carved of pearwood from the dark orchards of Dis and made her drink the ashes mixed with a widow's tears; now the wound has mysteriously reopened and a curse tried to keep it open. This is no ordinary healing, someone is trying to thwart me, someone close."

The Prince-Constort, still flanked by his captains, stalked up until he could put his flawless face right into Lauren'rt's "I don't want to hear your excuses" he snarled through bared teeth "Or your baseless conspiracy theories." he grabbed Lauren'rt's collar with one hand thrust an outstretched finger into his face "If she dies, so do you and the half-pint." He spat, then turned and strode out. Lauren'rt waited until he was gone then daintily wiped his face with an embroidered handkerchief.

"Half-Pint? Half-pint!" said Callalily nearly vibrating with anger "I could drink a flagon to his flute and still walk away leaving his-pointy-earship to sleep it off under the table."

"His rudeness, though all-encompasing, is the least of his sins" said Lauren'rt "His hands smelt of doll's eyes."

"Doll's eyes?" asked Callalily, confused

"Have I really taught you nothing in all this time? Yes doll's eyes." Lauren'rt stared at her.

"Uh, uh. I can't think.. What do doll's eyes even smell like?"

Lauren'rt walked over to a table piled with ingredients and components and picked up a sprig of berries.

"hmm?" he smiled at Callalily

"Oh! Doll's eyes!" She claped her hands delightedly "A type of baneberry. Deadly poisonous, even a few stop the heart. But it can be used in spells to cure rheumatism and heart failure and... oh yes.. and in adaptive curses." she looked at him wide-eyed "but for those to work the caster has to reinforce them each day by touching the victim on the lips."

"Indeed."

"And I thought it was sweet he kissed her every day! What an utter scuzzbucket!"

"The other problem with adaptive curses is, of course, that with a little ingenuity they can be made to rebound on the caster. All we'd need is some doll's eyes of our own, a brass mirror, some gravemould, dead man's fingers, a personal object of the curser as a focus and something of them, nail clippings, a lock of hair, blood, spit."

"How are we going to get all that?" asked Callalily "the berries, the fungus and the mirror I can get down the market if we've none in stock but a personal object and some toenail clippings or blood, we can't very well ask him for it, and he'll be on his guard."

"You'd have thought so." said Lauren'rt and he took out the embroidered handkerchief.

"That's not yours."

"It must have floated from his sleeve into my pocket while he was engaged in threatening me, face to face; rather damply I might add."

"Reversing a curse, it's dark magic ain't it? Pretty much necromancy."

"Yes. I don't care. Do you?"

"Naww.."

"Then let's crack on. Or do you think we should inform the Prince-Consort that we've discovered the root cause of the Queen's problems and have a solution at hand first?"

"Oh I'm sure he'll find that out soon enough. Half-pint. 'Swhat you get."

"And if he should get sick he can always find a village crone to heal him."

The prince is an asshole apparently.