Book 1: Brutality

Healer

19

"They say time heals all wounds, but that presumes the source of the grief is finite." — Cassandra Clare

~Trigger Warning~

Lindor coos and I open my eyes to play another signing game with him. After such dark thoughts, the sight of an innocent baby is sweet relief. Lindor's such a good child and I swear he recognises me, smiling every time he sees me.

He knows who saved him from illness and death and he's still so relieved and delighted to be healthy, always laughing, kicking and looking at his new, pain-free world with bright, clear eyes. Good boy, I sign and he laughs, grabbing at my fingers

"Albia!" Valindra calls. "Come on, let's head home. You've probably got some patients waiting by now." Her mouth twists a little at this.

Coming, I sign and scooping Lindor into his sling, I tuck the book under my arm and follow Valindra back to the Tree. There are faeries waiting for me. A little gaggle of wild fey, nursing injuries while sitting around the clearing. At our approach, they all leap to their feet.

"Please, Lady Healer...See my leg...Can you do something for my arm, Unicorn-Blessed?" Valindra takes Lindor and stomps off, scowling as they surround me. I feel a moment's anxiety for her before being swamped by my patients' needs.

Healing their injuries is easy. Just a quick laying of my hands on the injury, then, a flash of white light and their flesh and bones knit close, free of infection, trauma and scarring.

It gives me a flash of delight to see my power, to watch cuts and broken bones disappear as if they never were. There's a smug satisfaction too, at how the faeries fawn on me. Please, Lady Healer. Please, Unicorn-Blesses. I need your help, sweet healer. Who's a worthless, powerless, useless mortal now, faeries?

They leave me loaded with gifts: a jar of honey, chestnuts, berry jam, etc. I accept them all with curtsies; Valindra and I can certainly use them and I'm not going to refuse faerie payments for the service I've done. But today, something unusual appears.

"Here," says a korrigan, holding up a clear, plastic bag. "It's iron fillings."

The faeries shrink away as I take the bag and the korrigan seems happy to let it go, stepping back with alacrity. It's no wonder, iron's deadly poisonous to all faeries.

But not to mortals.

I smile and wave the korrigan off with the others, but I find my eye keeps wandering to that little bag of iron, sitting on top the pile of gifts. An idea is forming.

"Well," Valindra comes out. "Are they gone at last?"

I nod and she sniffs. She really doesn't like my patients. "Beggars and riffraff," she's called them that more than once. I can sort of understand because they're strangers, mobbing her house. But, she knows as well as I do that I can't turn them away, not without just cause.

That would give terrible offence and they'd blame her as well as me. I'm officially her servant, after all, and what I do is her responsibility, at least to an extent.

So all she says is, "I'm going to get some weaving done. Look after Lindor, eh?" She hands me Lindor and goes back inside.

I hold Lindor close, under one arm while I use the other to hold up the bag full of venomous metal. That evening, I sew. I learned how to from Naela, even if — as every female faerie at Court assured me — I am painfully slow and my stitch work will never match theirs because I'm just a mortal, but that's quite good for a human, dear, blah blah blah.

But this doesn't have to match the supernatural fineness of Court embroidery, it just has to be the right size, shape and strong enough for its purpose.

I'm a little surprised by how much I enjoy it. I'd forgotten the slow, contemplative joy of creating something out of fabric and thread. It reminds me of peaceful afternoons and evenings, sitting with Naela in her parlour, working on projects together.

I look with satisfaction at my finished product: a small pouch, with loops to hang from my belt, a folded-over flap with toggles so I can close it securely but also open it quickly. I take my open can of salt and pour it into the pouch, a steady white stream.

Valindra watches with Lindor fussing in her arms. "Albia," she says nervously, "what are you doing?"

I hold up a finger: wait a moment. I take out the bag of iron and she recoils. Ignoring her, I pour in the iron and mix it with the salt, using my bare hand. Valindra stares.

Then I button the pouch shut and place it on the shelf with my clothing, high up where Lindor won't get at it. I smile at Valindra, which doesn't seem to reassure her much.

Don't worry, I sign. Then my command of sign language runs out and I have to pull over the notebook one of my patients gave to me.

It's just in case we're attacked while we're out. I'll be able to throw it in their eye. It will work on even non-sentient predators: all terrestrial fey creatures are violently allergic to salt and even more so to iron.

Valindra winces a bit, imagining it. A mixture of salt and iron thrown in the eye of even the most powerful faerie will cause agonising pain. For the lesser fey, it could even cause permanent blindness.

"That's...cold of you, Albia." She sounds both unnerved and admiring. "I guess it will be good for you to have some type of defence...Can't hurt anyway."

I nod. It would have been good for me to have such defence many years ago, I wonder why I never thought of it before. But of course, I was raised by faeries and taught to fight by them — somewhat ineffectually in my case.

It would have never occurred to them to create such a weapon and so it never occurred to me either. I only ever fought with their weapons and I never even fought well enough.

At this, an unexpected hardness forms in my breast, a spit of rage. Yet, another evil faerie trick, another way to keep me and my sister helpless while pretending to offer acceptance.

Follow these rules and we'll treat you as an equal. Follow these rules and we'll accept you. Well, I tried following their rules for ten years and look where it got me. I'm done playing their games.

It's time to make some rules of my own.

~Fun Fact~

It is impossible for most people to lick their own elbow.

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