Tales from the Tavern

The Tired Healer

The faint light of a single candle flickered in Jasyr Selico's tent. It was the cold hour before dawn, when the first deep gray began to wash out the dimmest stars of night, but Jasyr had not slept. He sat on his bedroll, a worn book spread across his knees. A flickering candle provided barely enough light to read, but he had been at it all night, flipping pages and perusing spells over and over again.The first twinge of a headache was starting behind his eyes. But he continued anyway. A little more practice now, he knew, could make all the difference in the coming day.

Just as dusk fell the night before, the scouts had returned. The enemy was near, they said, near enough to begin battle. As the news spread, there had been a mad scramble, people dashing hither and thither to finalize the defenses. As soon as he heard the news, Jasyr had run into his tent, pulled out his spellbook and begun reviewing all the healing spells he had ever practiced. Fresh out of training, he had never seen battle before, and he was determined to ensure that no soldier died because he could not remember whether it took two body runes or three to heal a punctured lung.

Finally, now that the night was nearly gone, he felt confident he knew every spell. Leaning back, he closed the book and rubbed his eyes. Weariness sank over him like a suffocating blanket. Figuring he ought to get what rest he could, he rolled into his blankets and fell asleep immediately.

Jasyr woke, at first unsure what had disturbed his sleep. Then there was an echoing explosion. The ground rumbled beneath him, and he knew. Blinking, he hastened to his feet and out the door of his tent. Another explosion, closer now, rent the air, and he stumbled when the ground shook again. More explosions followed, some nearer, some farther. Though he tried to sprint to his station in the medical building, his gait turned into a lurching scramble, and struggling to keep his balance on the shifting ground, he moved laterally almost as much as he progressed forward. Worse, his legs seemed heavy and sluggish, his reactions slow. Glancing up, he saw the sun had barely crested the horizon, and realized he could not have had more than an hour or two of sleep.

A gong, barely loud enough to hear through the echoing booms, sounded the alarm, calling everyone to the defenses. Jesyr wondered how anyone could still be asleep, unaware of the attack. Though he had been among the first on his feet, he now passed soldiers rushing in every direction, racing to their stations. They all knew where to go, but it seemed like chaos.

When he reached the medical building, he found that chaos -- real, not seeming -- reigned. Already the wounded poured in. Many had injuries that were as grotesque as anything Jesyr had ever imagined. There were ragged stumps, singed and bloody. Everyone seemed to have a broken leg or arm hanging askew, and more often than not, the broken bone protruded from the skin. One poor man had a gash that stretched from hip to shoulder, deep enough that it had notched his ribs. Trying to ignore what he was working on, Jasyr grabbed a bag of runes from the bin beside the door and began to heal.

It was not long before the injuries began to blend together, passing by in a frantic haze of sweat and blood. The process became mechanical: analyze the damage, choose the appropriate runes, crush them, and spread the dust across the wound. Then onto the next. It was draining, and though Jesyr had started at speed, his hands soon began to lag, the spells coming slower. Healing took energy both from the wounded and the healer, and the more grievous the wound, the more energy it sapped.

Jesyr's thirteenth patient was the first one he couldn't save. He broke the right runes and spread the dust like normal, but the spell sapped too much energy, and with a rattling gasp, the man breathed his last. Jesyr stared, unbelieving, and though a new patient replaced the corpse, he did not start healing until an assistant prodded him in the arm, breaking him from the shock.

Some time later -- Jesyr had no idea how long. It could have been hours or days; he couldn't tell -- his energy, too, was drained. Three times he tried to cast the healing spell, and on the third, he collapsed. His muscles like rubber, he could no longer stand, and spots swam before his eyes. He lay on his back, staring up at a ceiling that faded in and out. Next he knew, someone was dragging him.

"Exhausted," he heard someone say. "He needs to rest."

"No," he muttered.

"What?" the voice said.

"There.. There are more. I need... They need me. I can help." His voice sounded weak, distant.

"No, son, you can't. You need to rest now."

"But..." Jesyr couldn't think what to say next. His brain was fogged and cloudy. But the voice seemed to understand. A head, gray-haired and lined with wisdom drifted into sight, strong and comforting.

"You can't save everyone," it said. "You've done your best."

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Hey there! Thanks for reading The Tired Healer! Don't forget to like, follow, and share if you enjoyed this piece! Also, if you're willing, I'd like to know one place where you felt engaged with the story and one place where you felt a little distant. Thanks!