𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐫 || 𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐂 ||

3. The High Lord's Son

Meira:

I can't stop thinking about that Shadowsinger.
Who, what where runs through my head, deep in thoughts like, why did I react that way? Why did he want to know my name?

What makes that moment so special, and why do I feel like it was important?

"Healer, healer! We need a healer!" One young Illyrian came rushing in, slightly red in the face and blood all over his leathers, interrupting me from my thoughts. "Someone's been stabbed!"

This got my attention. "Where?" I ask, pulling myself out from under the counter where I'd stored some expensive herbs and checking Erin hadn't gone through them.

"Training ring. Come quickly, the other one didn't look too good either."

"Oh really. " I say sarcastically. I do not want to have to be up all night treating wounds just because their egos got to big.

"Hurry! There was lots of blood when I left."

I roll my eyes and follow him - more like chase him, the kid is fast - through the huts toward the training wing.

They'd better not have killed each other yet, or stabbed them in the abdomen. Or I'm not helping.

———
That kid was right.

There was lots of blood. However, nobody seemed that worried, most just glared at the pair of Illyrians who I still couldn't see in detail.

The Illyrian, the one who'd been stabbed, still held his dignity, and did not bow his head. Both of them were still yelling swear words and curses at each other from other sides of the ring, and everyone was watching, even the women who never seemed to look up from the ground.

Both of the boys could only have been about 7, but as I got closer there were already existing bruises along his jaw and face, although they'd almost healed.

"What's your name?" I ask gently, but all he does is spits,

"None of your business, bitch."

At my feet, his brown eyes full of hatred but I can see him trying not to cry.

Gods, he's only 7! And he's not even crying and can curse like Devlon. 

I don't take it personally. I'm used to it, especially from his family, and after a while I can't bring myself to care, but to only worry about the patient.

I pull away his ruined leathers. The cut is deep, but not too deep - it'll need stitches though, and lots of patching up.

"Alright then. Just remember, your life lies in my hands. And on that fact, just try and be a bit nicer to me. You're lucky it didn't go through your wing."

I take out some cloth and thread, but before I can get any closer-

My vision wavered, and a sharp stab of pain fled though the side of my head, leaving my vision clouded and blurry.

I fall down, and the impact my head seems to make with the ground ricochets around my skull.

"My son." And angry voice spits, "Does not need help from the likes of you, witch."

"Hands off her." A dark voice thundered, and I look up, barely making out a body and wings from the brightness of the sun. I don't need to look to know it's him, the Illyrian Shadowsinger from last night.

I move away quietly and get up. The boy's father is pissed, his jaw clicking and he looks ready to attack if provoked. Wings outstretched, green eyes full of adrenaline.

This is what the war did to people. Lose hope in healing, after so many could not be saved, and quick to attack and defend in the wrong moments.

"I will say this once, and only once." I say sternly. "This boy needs to see a healer or he will die. That's up to you, and if you don't bring him, then his chances of survival without being properly seen to are slim." I added softly, "We have already lost loved ones, so let's try and save the ones we can."

I look back to say thank you, only to see the Shadowsinger gone.

Where the hell did he go?

I just shake my head, wincing when it blurs my vision. That's going to be sore for the next few days.

With that, I walk over to the other side of the training ring, where the other Illyrian has been isolated and unarmed, but sure enough will get a beating, or a whip.

It's barbaric, but what can I do, apart from be there when it's over and help heal the scars?

—-

I walk across the training ring, jumping and swinging myself over the fence. I keep my eyes trained on him, watching him, but he doesn't seem to move.

And then it hit me.

The power.

He was powerful, that was for sure. It seemed to radiate off of him in dark waves, and his blue- grey eyes still held the adrenaline, not guilt.

Just like his brother then, who I'm assuming will turn up any minute.

"Hello," I couch down the child, who now when I look at him looks more like 6. His ill-fitting leathers are slightly covered in old, dried blood, which I can't tell if it was there before.

But as I get a closer look at him, there's something...feminine about his face. Small, gentle noise; big, beautiful eyes and Cupid bow lips.

And when they whisper 'hello' back, it's almost softer and higher pictched like a girl.

I can't make assumptions...but...

"Do you want me to get your brother?"

———